On November 19 I will be 63 years old. I can’t help but think of my mother who was diagnosed with a brain tumor in her 63rd year. She spent the next year dying a very painful death in the end, brought on, not by the tumor but by the medication she was taking. She never could face her death. The day before she died she said she was “getting better.” Now 20 years later I am her age and I see more clearly why she clung so desperately to her life. Her mind was still young. She enjoyed the sociality of her children and grandchildren who dearly loved and respected her. She had served a mission and longed to serve another one. She was a gifted soprano and had more songs wanting to be sung. She enjoyed the desert, western novels, Mexican food, flower arranging, gardening—yes she loved life—all the good, bad and in-between of it. She had seen it all and still wanted more.
I hope I will think of her every day from now on knowing that each day for me is a gift that my mother did not have. And so everything I can accomplish in my remaining years I dedicate to her: every grandchild I hug, every story I write, every meal I cook for loved ones, every picture I paint, every service I do, every mission I serve, every testimony I bear will be a gift of time that I will cherish and hopefully honor my beloved mother.
