Remembering My Mother: A Heartfelt Tribute to Love, Legacy, and Unforgettable Hands
I Never Saw Your Wings
by Michele (last name unknown)
How is it that I never saw your wings
when you were here with me?
When you closed your eyes and soared
to the Heavens I could hear the
faint flutter of your wings as you left.
Your body no longer on this side,
your spirit here eternally, I see your halo shine.
I close my eyes and see the multicolored wings
surround me in my saddest moments and my happiest times.
Mother my angel, God has given you your assignment:
always my mother, forever my angel.
You fly into my dreams and when I am asleep
I feel your wings brush against my face wiping away
the tears I shed since I can no longer hold
you in my arms, but in my heart.
You earned those wings dear mother
and you will always be my angel eternal.
A Sudden Farewell: Honoring a Life of Love and Faith
This past week, my world was profoundly shaken by the sudden passing of my beloved mother. She departed unexpectedly due to a heart attack, leaving behind a void that words can scarcely describe. Yet, as I navigate this period of intense grief, I am continually reminded of the beautiful, full, and abundantly blessed life she lived. Her journey was a testament to grace, resilience, and an unyielding spirit that touched everyone fortunate enough to know her.
My mother was a woman of unwavering faith, deeply devoted to the Lord. She didn’t just speak of faith; she embodied it in every action, every word, and every prayer. It was her profound conviction that instilled a strong, guiding faith within my own soul—a spiritual compass that has directed me through every twist and turn of my life. This precious legacy of faith is one of the greatest gifts she ever bestowed upon me, and it continues to be a source of comfort and strength as I learn to live without her physical presence.
The Culinary Heart of Our Home: A Mother’s Italian Legacy
Beyond her spiritual devotion, my mother was an absolutely fabulous cook, a true artisan of Italian cuisine. Alongside my father, she proudly owned and operated an Italian restaurant in Ames, Iowa. Within its welcoming walls, she showcased her exquisite Northern Italian dishes, delighting countless patrons with her culinary prowess. While her restaurant garnered immense praise and a loyal following, there was a secret every family member knew: the absolute BEST food, the truly magical creations, were exclusively served within the sacred confines of our home. These were the dishes imbued with an extra layer of love, tradition, and personal touch that simply couldn’t be replicated in a commercial setting.
Her hands were the heart of our kitchen, a constant source of warmth and nourishment. They were the hands that meticulously rolled out delicate pasta, folding and shaping homemade tortellini and ravioli for every holiday gathering and family celebration. These weren’t just meals; they were experiences, traditions passed down through generations. Each piece of pasta carried the weight of our family history, a culinary narrative told without a single written word. She prepared cherished family recipes, passed down from her ancestors in Modena, Italy, all from memory. No cookbooks, no precise measurements—just an innate understanding of flavor, texture, and the perfect balance of ingredients, a true mark of a master.
My mother’s hands were perpetually stirring a huge pot of our family’s iconic pasta sauce, a rich Bolognese that simmered for hours, filling our home with an intoxicating aroma. She had an intuitive touch for seasoning, knowing precisely the perfect amount of garlic and rosemary to sprinkle into her dishes, enhancing their flavors without overpowering them. Every meal was a symphony of taste, crafted with love and an unwavering dedication to her Italian heritage. These culinary traditions were not merely about food; they were about bringing family together, creating enduring memories, and expressing boundless love through the universal language of a shared meal.
Her Hands: A Tapestry of Love, Care, and Creativity
In the quiet days leading up to her final resting place beside my father, I found myself continually touching and caressing her hands. I burned those visual images—her perfectly manicured fingers, the soft texture of her skin—into my memory, knowing they would be my solace in the years to come. These were the hands that first held me, cradling me with unparalleled tenderness as a newborn. They were the hands that cared for me, fed me, bathed me, and, above all, loved me unconditionally through every stage of my life.
As I grew, my mother’s hands were a constant presence, a testament to her tireless devotion. They sewed my clothes, mended them with meticulous care, washed them clean, and pressed them flawlessly. Her hands were a symbol of her constant nurturing, ensuring I was always comfortable, presentable, and cared for. This daily dedication was not a chore but an expression of her deep maternal love.
But her hands were also instruments of incredible creativity and generosity. With yarn and hook, she crocheted countless beautiful afghans, each one unique and lovingly made to match the decor and personality of every child and grandchild. These weren’t just blankets; they were tangible hugs, expressions of warmth that wrapped us in her love long after she finished them. Her hands also crafted intricate quilts, pieces of art sewn with patience and precision. She explored pottery, shaping clay, painting delicate designs, and firing her creations with artistic flair. Beyond crafting, her hands were guides, patiently teaching me to play the piano, nurturing my love for music, and opening doors to a world of artistic expression. They taught me to garden, to bake, to clean, and to approach every task with purpose and care. These hands were never idle; they were always creating, always giving, always loving.
The Enduring Legacy: My Hands Now Carry Her Love
Now, my mother’s hands are gone from this earthly realm, forever gently pressed together, giving glory to God. The absence is a profound ache, a constant reminder of the life and love that once flowed so freely from them. Yet, even in this sorrow, there is a sense of peace, knowing she rests in divine embrace.
Inspired by the indelible examples taught by my mother, my own hands now bear the sacred responsibility of carrying on her boundless love to the next generation. I find myself reaching for the mixing bowls, remembering her touch as I knead dough. I pick up a needle and thread, recalling her meticulous stitches. I tend to my garden, guided by the lessons her hands once showed me. Every act of nurturing, creating, or comforting that I perform with my hands feels like an extension of her legacy, a living tribute to the woman who shaped me.
I pray with all my heart that I use my hands honorably, in her memory, reflecting the same kindness, dedication, and love that she so generously shared. I strive to infuse every gesture, every creation, every act of care with the spirit of her maternal warmth. And though I can no longer hold her physical hand, I hold onto the unwavering hope that I can continue to hold her hand spiritually, forever. Her love, like the gentle flutter of unseen wings, surrounds me, guiding me, and reminding me that while bodies may fade, the profound connection of love remains eternal, a comforting embrace that transcends all boundaries.