Moms Cry

Moms Cry

From Chicken Soup for the Soul: A Tribute to Moms

Moms Cry

In the corner of my dresser drawer is a small, folded pink dress. It has pearl buttons, a lace collar, and a silky, pink ribbon sash that goes around the middle. It has not always been in my drawer, however.

Before my mom went to heaven, this same dress remained in her dresser drawer for twenty-eight years. Now when I look at it, my eyes overflow with tears of joy, as it is a reminder of the love and comfort God gave me through my mom, Betty.

I was adopted when I was six years old. For quite a while, I could not comprehend that I really had a mom. I called out “Betty” when I needed another spoon to dig in the sandbox. I called out “Betty” when I needed a drink of Kool-Aid. One night I had awakened from a bad dream, and it was “Betty” who heard me crying and came to chase the monsters away. One day I fell; my knee was bleeding, and I was scared. “Betty” was there to comfort me and make it all better. And as she placed a yellow Band-Aid on my knee and kissed away the hurt, for the first time I simply looked up at her, smiled, and said, “Thank you, Mom.” And for the first time, I saw my mom cry.

Growing up, life’s wounds sometimes needed bigger Band-Aids. When that happened, Mom was always there. As a teen, I began to question who I was and where I had come from. Mom didn’t always have the answers to my questions, but when she didn’t, she would take me to her bedroom and, once again, show me the neatly folded pink dress that was in her dresser drawer.

I had seen the dress numerous times. Mom would point out the pearl buttons, the lace collar, and the pink sash that tied around the middle. And once again, through her tears, she would tell me, “This is the dress you wore the day you became my daughter.” And in sharing that special moment with me, she comforted me.

I still remember wearing the little pink dress, twirling around and making swishy noises with the ruffled petticoat underneath. At those moments I truly felt like a fairy princess. Also, in that moment of remembering, the answers to my questions seemed less important. I simply knew I was a princess, because I had a mom named Betty, and I was loved.

This is why moms cry, I’ve learned. God gives them tears to express the outpouring of love their hearts cannot express in words. Does anything else really matter?

Nancy Barnes

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