In My Mother's House

  Apples ripening on the counter in the bathroom, an old CD soaking in a plastic tub of vinegar and water, and a moldy red pepper with two slimy green onions sitting in the freezer bin:  this is a view of my life in my mother’s house.  I am grateful that the ice cream has not yet landed unnoticed in the refrigerator, though one day I did find the cooking spray in the freezer.

    Not ten minutes ago, I lugged a basketful of clean jeans from our laundry area in the shop office to our living room where Mom is in charge of folding laundry.  During the time it took me to write the first paragraph at the computer back in my bedroom, Mom snatched up the basket of clean jeans, took it back to the shop, and then returned it again to the living room, asking me if the jeans were clean.  It’s hard to keep up with her.

    I don’t remember asking God to teach me patience, but there are hourly lessons here at home.  Items disappear.  Laundry gets lost.  Thrown-away vegetables end up in the freezer.  Questions get repeated.  At times our conversations sound like the skipping and repeating of a broken record.  Mom asks a question, I answer it, and within minutes she asks the same question. There is no sense in arguing with or correcting her.  I’ve learned to let things slide, knowing they will be forgotten or repeated within minutes.  Does it really matter that she thinks it hasn’t rained in weeks when yesterday all it did was rain?  No.  Is it important to have the last word?  No. Being kind is far more important than being right. 

However, I did quietly throw away the spoiled vegetables in the freezer and the vinegar-soaked CD (an old trial offer from AOL).  But the apples are still sitting on the bathroom counter.