A Rose Tossed from Heaven
A Centennial Tribute to My Mom
Though the gift be small and simple,
if the wish is wide,
Just the simple gift of giving
makes you warm inside.
Though the thought is ever fleeting,
if a thought at all,
Remember all the mighty big things
started out as small.
So if you've a gift worth giving
let it be your smile.
Let it be a kindly word
that makes the stranger stop awhile.
Let it be a simple gift then
if the wish is wide.
Just the simple gift of giving
makes you warm inside.
When I heard those lyrics to the song, "Simple Gifts" a while ago, I immediately thought of my Mom.
Today would be my Mom's 100th birthday. Born in 1925 in the Gerritsen Beach section of Brooklyn, there was a bit of controversy between her parents on what her name would be. Her father wanted her to be called "Mildred," but her mother wanted her to be named "Theresa" after St. Theresa of Lisieux, who was canonized earlier that year. A compromise was reached - she would be called Mildred by her family, but to the rest of the world, she would be Theresa (or Terry). This was confusing to my Dad when he first met my Mom's family. Later that night he asked her, "Who's this Mildred they keep talking about?"
Life wasn’t easy for her and her family. Her father passed away when she was 5 years old, leaving her mother to raise seven children during the Great Depression. Her father's family, wealthy German Protestants, did not approve of their son marrying a poor French Catholic, and shunned them. An onion sandwich for dinner was sometimes a luxury, and there were years when the family couldn’t even afford a Christmas tree. My Mom fondly recalled the story that one year, she and her family were invited to spend Christmas with her Aunt Mary. Her two brothers disappeared from Christmas dinner early and went to a lot and helped themselves to an unsold Christmas tree to surprise the family when they got home.
Although she possessed great wisdom, my Mom never graduated high school, choosing to leave school and go to work to help support her family. One of those jobs was at Nabisco, where she met a returning WWII GI. They fell in love and were married in 1947. They had three sons, Bob, Al, and, ummm, some other kid whose name escapes me.
I can’t relate to you the great accomplishments of my Mom because there are none. To the world - a simple woman, a simple housewife, a simple mother, a simple friend, a simple parishioner of her parish church. But what distinguishes her and where her true greatness lies is in the mastery of her “simple gifts” - generosity to a fault, undeterred cheerfulness, tireless dedication to her family, a heart that brimmed over with love, kindness, thoughtfulness, sensitivity, and most of all, faith.
It's the “simple gifts” - making sure that the garage door was open so my father didn’t have to get out of the car to open it after a long day’s work, made longer by a Long Island rush hour commute. In later years, having fresh water in my Dad’s denture cup with an Efferdent tablet beside it so he wouldn’t have to do it for himself. Christmas shopping to the point of exhaustion. Meticulously cleaning the house for an impending visit by my brothers and their families at Thanksgiving. Getting excited about the Mets, not that she had any interest in baseball, but only because I did. Tears shed in sadness; tears shed in happiness because of the depth of her empathy. The smile. The hello. The unending stream of Hallmark cards she would send for any occasion or no occasion at all, simply because someone had found his or her way into her heart. Simple Gifts.
And me, I was the beneficiary of so many of those “simple gifts.” On this, her birthday, my mind is flooded with so many beautiful memories – the two of us laughing so hard and so long over something silly that the tears would roll down our cheeks. The knock on the living room window every year as I was hanging Christmas lights outside to tell me to come in and get warm, and the ham and Swiss cheese sandwich and cup of tea that would be waiting for me when I came inside. Putting the gifts around the Christmas tree together after Midnight Mass and then sharing a cup of hot chocolate and some fresh baked Toll House cookies before we said goodnight, And each and every night, the “good night” kiss and the “I love you” before retiring, and, in the last few years of her life, the warm, tight hug that would follow – so warm and tight that I can still feel it to this day. But most of all, the sharing of faith, because my Mom’s true greatness lies in her deep faith and devotion to our Lord and His Mother. Going to Mass together. Praying together. Just talking about our faith and religion together. “Oh woman, great is your faith!” Simple gifts.
I mentioned above that my Mom was named for St. Theresa of Lisieux, and she had a lifelong devotion to her. And, I believe, that St. Theresa had a devotedness to her for the 72 years of her life, as well.
St. Theresa desired to become great in the eyes of God but realized that she was not destined to be someone who would perform great deeds. St. Theresa said that what matters in life is “not great deeds, but great love.” And so, she aspired to heaven by doing the little things of daily routine all for the honor and glory of God. To do ordinary things with great love - that is exactly how Mom lived her life. Not great deeds, but through her love, all things became great. St. Therese said that, after she died, she would send a shower of roses from heaven. My Mom was one of the roses tossed from heaven that brought so much beauty, grace, joy, and love to me, to my family, and to every person who ever knew her.
Funny, people remember the small things. It touches me when I, to this day, meet a parishioner from St. Therese, and they say to me, “You know, I still remember your Mom ...”
You would think after all this time it would be easier. You would think after all these years I would miss her less. But it doesn't. And I don't.
When you're young you can't wait to be independent . . . To show the world you don't need anyone . . . That you can make it on your own. But you're not. And you do. And you can't.
My generation didn't have mobile phones to take snapshots of every moment of life. But snapshots fade or get deleted. I have MURALS . . . CANVASES . . . WORKS OF ART, in my mind and in my heart, that are there forever. Unfading. Permanent.
I wish I could show them all to you! I wish you could see all the joy, some of the pain, that tells me, to this day, that I was loved. Totally. Unreservedly. Unconditionally.
You would think after all this time it would be easier. You would think after all these years I would miss her less. But it doesn't. And I don't. And although the male ego is loath to admit it, an adult male is nothing but a graying, balding boy - A boy who still misses, loves, needs his Mom.
Happy Birthday, Mom!
