Mothers are precious
We all have them, cherish them in different ways,
even see them differently, as diverse human beings.
I am blessed with several different views of mothers.
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| Joanne, an incredible and loving woman! |
First, my dearest wife Joanne, mother to Anna Rose and Hailey
who stayed much longer in the premortal life than we expected.
Yet, they came, a bit unwillingly, but they came, both strawberry
blondes,
full of spunk and vigor and very independent in their own ways.
She taught them things that she learned in Relief Society, from books,
from the Spirit, from being in the right place at the right time.
She read to them, rocked them for hours when they cried,
attended their plays, substituted in their classes,
even taught them in Young Women’s, taught them
to pray and read scriptures, taught them to love God,
nourished them both physically and spiritually,
corrected them when they needed, showed forth more love
when needed, and cried with them over boys, those ever-annoying boys.
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| Hailey, Joanne, and Anna Rose |
Our daughters are now mothers, each with a daughter and a son,
full of spunk and vigor and very independent in their own unique ways.
When they compare pictures of their daughters, they see themselves
when they were little. It dawns on them, sometimes,
that their children are or eventually are becoming like they were.
Fortunately, they grow out of many of the challenges
that doth beset them when they were little.
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| Avonlea |
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| Hailey--see any similarities between her and Avonlea? |
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| Emiline and Anna Rose--similarities? |
Both Anna Rose and Hailey have been delightful and caring mothers,
still full of spunk and vigor, but now seasoned with wisdom
and vision of what needs to be or should be, pattering their lives
in subtle ways, just their own mother did along their childhood path,
whether they believe it or not at the very moment of times.
At some point, though, they will look in the mirror or their children
from a far and realize—maybe much to their chagrin and angst—
they are a bit like their dearest mother.
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| My mother, Barbara Hammon |
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| Darrel, my mother (Barbara), and Dennis (my oldest brother) when we received our Eagle Scout Awards |
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| My sisters with my Dad: Delaina, Telecia, Dad, Shawna, and Jaralyn |
Another mother is my own mother, Barbara, who had eight of us,
yes, full of spunk and vigor, often a bit more than we should have.
Sometimes, when I look back at the past—from my version, of course—
I see a woman who was determined to make sure her children,
her sons and her daughters, towed the line and learned how to work.
I especially loved working in the garden with my mother,
picking raspberries early in the morning coolness
with our gallon buckets hooked on a belt or piece of baling twine.
We mostly picked in silence, stopping periodically to partake
of the luscious red berries, so sweet and divine, and bask
in the quietness of the morning without the cacophony of children.
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| Joanne with a gift from one of our missionaries |
All in all, mothers are precious souls, more precious than life itself.
In childhood, even teenager years, we were at odds with them,
tempting and taunting them because of their old-fashioned ways
of living and mothering, often causing them to cry when no one was
looking.
But the tauntings and teasings turn
into our own teachings and leanings,
perhaps a shade or tow to the left or to the right of the pattern
we once learned while pulling against the apron strings of our mothers.
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| Christiaan, Anna Rose, Emiline, and William |
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| Clark, Joseph, Hailey, and Avonlea |
Mothers’ memories live in our hearts and minds forever, roasting
there in their own juices, shimmering at the right temperature.
We add a dash of this and that, and our mothers become larger than
life,
more sincere and loving, perhaps even more kind that we remember.
Let the memories live on within us, propelling us to places we have
never gone.
Our mothers will be with us forever—in life or in death—
for we become them in some way or another.
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| Artist's rendition of us with our grandchildren |
