Being a mom is not a BEING LIFE; it is a DOING LIFE.
It’s a constant, daily, demanding string of decisions between selfishness and donating love cheerfully.
When a sleepy wanderer-child interrupts my calm early morning…
When I want the kitchen all to myself…
When I had a busy day and just wanted to rest….
When I am trying to think and someone asks me rapid-fire questions…
Will I snap in irritation, sigh impatiently…or donate love cheerfully?
1. to present as a gift, grant, or contribution; make a donation of, as to a fund or cause:to donate used clothes to the Salvation Army.
2. To provide (blood, tissue, or an organ) for transfusion, implantation, or transplant.
Yep, that is motherhood. Donating gifts, contributions, blood, sweat tears, heart, soul and more — whatever one has left to give.
It’s holding tight, It’s lettin’ go It’s flyin’ high and layin’ low It lets your strongest feelin’s show And your weakness too It’s a little and a lot to ask An endless and a welcome task Love isn’t somethin’ that we have It’s somethin’ that we do…
There’s no request, too big or small We give ourselves, we give our all Love isn’t some place that we fall It’s somethin’ that we do…
I wrote once before about my mother-in-law, Zenaida, on this blog, but last week I had the privilege of writing about her again, because we said our final goodbyes to Mama Z last week.
Here are some words I shared at the funeral of this tenacious Cuban lady, and the full story of her courageous exit from Cuba follows…
“We have a big family and each time after we had a baby, Zenaida would come for a visit, bearing LOADS of food. She didn’t just bring a meal and a bag of salad. It was more like:
A huge watermelon
2 XL bags of tortilla chips
A large, heavy homemade loaf of banana bread, baked in a bundt pan
A 10-pound package of ground beef
And an institutional sized box of cereal
When she arrived, our refrigerator and freezer would be stuffed full and there was so much food on the table that there often wasn’t room for anyone to sit down and eat there.
That was just how she gave.
She gave BIG. and
She gave generously.
On these visits after a new baby, Zenaida would find things to clean. She was thorough, and there was always something to clean at our house. She would scour the grimy highchair, she would pull out the washer and dryer and sweep behind, and once she used a toothpick to completely detail our toaster — removing every last crumb.
Zenaida loved to work with her hands, and she would add beauty and sparkle to her creations and sometimes add her own creative touch to something she had purchased. She made her own clothes and was not afraid to tackle complicated styles. She usually chose fancy fabrics with a little sparkle, and she always wore her outfits with her favorite jewelry.
Zenaida and I shared a love of sewing, however, the fabric I usually chose was much more plain and simple and I seldom wear much jewelry.
One time she took me aside and said:
“Lisa. You shouldn’t dress so much like a nun.”
She sewed many dresses for me and for our daughters. Once she made me a jumper that had an opening cut out at the bottom.
“I made it like this, so when you are walking up the stairs, the dress will kind of open up at the bottom and show your legs a little bit.”
Actually, the dress I am wearing today is one that Zenaida made for herself and wore 30 years ago at our wedding. I think she would be happy to see me wearing something she made — and with a touch of sparkle in the fabric!
Tomorrow’s funeral service will include a Bible passage from Proverbs 31 about an inspiring, God-fearing woman. This is a fitting passage for Zenaida, because it includes phrases such as:
She works with her hands in delight!
She makes coverings for herself;
Her clothing is fine linen and purple.
The heart of her husband trusts in her, and he will have no lack of gain. She does him good and not evil, all the days of her life. (I never knew Zenaida’s husband; he passed away many years before I became part of the family. But whenever she spoke about him, her words were loving and honoring.)
She looks well to the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness.
Her children rise up and bless her.
And that last phrase is our desire: to share words that explain what a priceless part of the family that she will always be, and to express gratefulness for her investment of love in all of our lives.”
In 1963, Zenaida Martinez Araujo Luciano left Cuba with her beloved husband, two young sons, and nothing else but her faith and courage.
On August 15, 2020 Zenaida left this earth with a full life, along with the admiration of her large and loving family.
Zenaida was born in the town of Santiago de Cuba, Cuba in 1932. She was the only child of Francisca Martinez Araujo. Zenaida and her mother lived with Josefa Fernandez, a dear family friend, who became like a second mother to her.
Zenaida attended Escuela de Comercio where she joined the marching band as a drummer and played on the volleyball team. After high school, she studied at Escuela Profesional de Comercio and earned her degree in international trade and customs in 1955.
After finishing college, she fell in love with and married Antonio Luciano. The couple welcomed their first child, Antonio Jr., while living in New York. After Cuban dictator Batista was removed from office, they returned to Cuba, where their second son, José was born. When the new leader, Fidel Castro, declared Cuba a communist state, Zenaida and Antonio applied for permission to immigrate to the United States.
Zenaida and Antonio finally received authorization to leave Cuba in 1963, and when they departed their homeland, they were forced to leave behind their family and friends, their wedding rings, and all earthly possessions. After a brief stay in Miami, the family obtained sponsorship generously offered by the Richfield Jaycees in Minnesota. When Zenaida’s friends warned her that she would have to milk cows up in Minnesota, she laughed and said she gladly would.
While living in Minneapolis, Zenaida and Antonio’s family grew as they were blessed with sons Nicholas and Giovanni. Sadly, in 1974, Zenaida’s beloved husband died of cancer, which left her with four children, limited English, and without a driver’s license, car or income source. Dauntless and determined, Zenaida pushed through these new challenges, and studied to become a U.S. citizen in 1976. She learned to drive and secured a job at the VA in laundry and food service. Later, she transferred to the IRS, where she worked for 20 years. After retiring in 1997, she was free to travel, sew, care for her grandchildren and attend their important events.
Zenaida will always be remembered as a persistent, generous, faith-filled person who never gave up. She was the #1 fan of her grandchildren’s activities and she was always the first person to deliver a happy birthday phone call or a severe weather update. Among many other things, she was an expert seamstress, a sports enthusiast, the best banana-bread-baker, a lavish food-giver, towel-embellisher, soup-maker, salsa-dancer and the rainbow-jello-queen.
This past year, Zenaida faced her cancer with dignity and courage, and she often expressed gratefulness to her family, who cared for her in her home. Zenaida passed away on August 15, 2020 at age 88, surrounded by her devoted family.
Mother’s Day is kind of like the Superbowl or Academy Awards for moms. And, the week before Mother’s Day can resemble an extended pre-game show — at our house, at least.
This predictable, annual phenomenon may include:
Family members choosing sporadic sociability over phone use. By this I mean that when I come into a room, they look up and smile. They pause a moment and cheerfully answer my “What was the highlight of your day?” and perhaps two other questions before glancing down at their phones again. They may look up again at me and smile yet again if I loiter.
My older daughters peppering me with questions the Sunday before Mother’s Day:
Mama, what do you want to do for Mother’s Day?
What do you want to eat?
If it rains and we can’t go for a walk, then what do you want to do?
What’s your favorite store?
My youngest boys showering me with gushing, matriarchal flattery. Their compliments and gift-giving escalate in intensity throughout the week:
Monday: Here’s a picture I made for you — You’re the best mom ever.
Tuesday: I’ll open the door for you, most excellent mother!
Wednesday: You’re the best mom that anyone in the whole world ever had.
Thursday: You’re the greatest person ever. Except for God.
When asked, “What do you want for Mother’s Day?” there’s a teeny, tiny, selfish part of me that wants to spend *my day* alone on a remote, sunny beach inhaling an entire bag of salt and vinegar ripple chips all by myself, choosing drinks from a cooler packed with my favorite kombuchas, and soaking in the sun where no will talk to me for 24 hours.
But that would feel empty, and it would be as silly as Superbowl athletes hiding from the crowds inside the locker room, or movie stars heading to the Oscars, makeup-less in their sweats.
This is Mother’s Day — a day to shine; embrace my precious, living gifts; receive a million hugs; and absorb the fleeting moments that God has given!
Me and my precious ones…(minus one absent Air Force son)
The Papa & The Mama
Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord… Psalm 127:3
I promised some ideas for sweetening your relationship with your mother-in-law. They are listed below. Sometimes it helps to have a new perspective. Please add your excellent ideas in the comment section 🙂
So, if you’re wondering how to love your mother-in-law (or maybe just start liking her), here are some ideas:
Do you know what pushes your buttons? Plan for the encounter before she walks in the door. Practice receiving her ideas. Make it clear when you have a different way of doing things, but say it kindly.
If you occasionally seek her advice on issues and follow it appreciatively, it may give you more space when your way isn’t Mom’s way.
Set boundaries as graciously as possible, such as: “We want to spend time with you; let us know you’re coming so we can plan ahead.”
Attack any problem issues when you and your husband are alone. As a team, work out a plan to improve things for the future.
Mention what you like about your mother-in-law — to your husband. Complaining about his mother may only motivate your husband to defend her.
Praise her sincerely. Praise her often. Tell her what you like about her as a mother-in-law or a grandmother. Speak of the excellent habits or qualities that she taught your husband when he was young. Show gratefulness for the sacrifices she made.
Love her, forgive her, speak of her strengths and overlook her offenses. Don’t ever criticize her in front of your children. Extend understanding to your mother-in-law and speak the truth graciously. She will see your love for her…. as well as your firm resolve to create an entirely new household.
Finally, treat your mother-in-law with love, honor and respect – just like you would want a future daughter-in-law to treat you.
I was hired recently to write a short article for a family blog.
I was given the topic, “How to Deal With Your Mother-In-Law.”
And, wouldn’t you know it — the day after I submitted my lofty, theoretical essay on “how to interact harmoniously with your mother-in-law,” she arrived for a rare visit. And, she didn’t just pop in; she stayed overnight.
This was not an accident; it was God’s way of allowing me to practice my written theories.
She grew up in another culture; oceans away from my stoic Scandinavian-German upbringing. She is a feisty, persistent gal, which is fortunate, considering her amazing life story and widowhood. She is also a terrifically thorough housekeeper and talented seamstress.
When she arrived last week, she pulled out a tiny mountain of post-season baseball shirts with patches. Nobody wants 2016 promo sport shirts in 2017, but Mom’s friend gave her a bunch free. So, while holding a blue shirt in her always-beautifully-orange-polished fingernails, she whispered:
“You just take the patch off and put something else there – whatever you want. Turn it over – see? And, stitch by stitch you can pull it out. Have a little patience.”
I nodded and smiled, inwardly knowing that I would never attempt this.
She tells what is on her mind– I never have to wonder. And, if we don’t have a chance to talk at the end of her visit, I will know what she thinks by the gifts she gives me the next time I see her:
She will give me bathroom towels (mine were too ratty?) or
Some room freshener (guess our home smelled stinky) or
Canned goods (our refrigerator must have looked a little empty.)
(She is a generous giver.)
In earlier years, I was slightly offended when she:
Told me that I “shouldn’t dress like a nun”
Cleaned out my crumb-filled toaster with a toothpick
Mentioned after cleaning the dirty highchair that it smelled like “parmesan cheese”
Little things like that can either annoy me, or (calling upon my sense of humor) endear me to this mysteriously unique character.
I have a choice.
Just because she loves in her different way, doesn’t mean her different way is wrong.
So, if you’re wondering how to love your mother-in-law (or maybe just start liking her)…
A few years ago, we went to hear a missionary speak about his work with orphans. He spotlighted this verse:
2 Corinthians 12:15 — “I will most gladly spend and be spent for your souls…”
He told about his schedule, being totally disposed to a large group of fatherless young boys. This man had NO time to himself, and didn’t have the conveniences of normal American living. He lived in a hot, Central American climate, in a rustic setting.
Yet, he was glad to expend (ekdapanao – to spend out, completely exhaust) himself for these guys. To him, these young men were souls to love…and win to Jesus. He looked past “dirty and needy” and saw “valuable.”
That’s true love. It’s the way God looks at us.
Romans 5:8 – “For while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.”
Our sinful selves are not lovable or desirable. Yet, with the covering of Jesus, we are gathered into God’s family – and He loves us.
Insert bridge here to the concept of motherhood…
I have eleven (biological) children to love, nurture and train. Some of them are adults now.
At times, I have felt “spent” as a mother.
(But…ahh… I have had hot showers, cups of coffee and a warm, cozy bed to enjoy — eventually.)
Although it’s tempting, I don’t want to coast on this marathon of motherhood. I don’t have toddlers anymore, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to put things on autopilot.
Let my teens smile and roll their eyes good-naturedly when I ask them “What are you going to be when you grow up?”
Let them groan when I stumble my way into their technological world, or make a silly parent pun.
I will correct them, confront them, and praise them. I will surprise them with love whenever I can (even when they’re crabby, contrary or cheeky.)
I will press on in the high calling of motherhood, calling upon God’s grace to refresh me when I’m spent.
But, for now I must say farewell — my fans await me.
It’s Mother’s Day weekend.
I already have a lovely lavender plant, a piece of chocolate and a gift that couldn’t wait to be given sitting on my desk.
Ekdapanao has its rewards. And it’s not even Sunday yet.
It’s garage sale season. I load eager children into the monster van. We roll slowly through middle class neighborhoods, seeking signs and cluttered driveways. When we spy a worthy target, we stop, click doors and spill out. Excited fingers jingle and drop quarters while I deliver final instructions.
“We’re not taking home junk. Just because it’s in the free box doesn’t mean we grab it. Everyone ready?”
Determined little shoppers approach the treasure-filled yard. We nod at the smiling homeowner with one eye on bargains in a corner.
Markie bubbles when he finds something on a sawhorse table. My big-eyed boy approaches, hands behind his back.
“I want to give you this for Mother’s Day. Will you get it and I’ll pay you back?”
I peer down at a sparkly find on a chain. The necklace reads “HOT” spelled out in rhinestones. I nod and smile, suppressing a major giggle.
I remind him that I forget to wear necklaces. My sparse collection of chains sits lonely on a handmade jewelry tree. It’s literally a branch of a tree that my son T.J. mounted on an unfinished wood base.
If I had to choose, I’d pick the branch holder over the jewelry.
“If you don’t want to wear it, you can just let it hang on your branch thing,” he says.
I hug him and smile. “That’s a perfect idea.”
We check out, tote a full bag into the van, ready to attack another driveway.