Magnolias and Steel: For Mother's Day

My mother grew up in Mississippi and her favorite flower was magnolias. For mom, no yard was complete without a sprawling magnolia tree with branches filled with large, waxy green leaves and gleaming white magnolia flowers opening to reveal the touches of purple and yellow in the petals.

Her love of magnolias only made our family joke funnier. My father, brother and I used to tease my mother that the reason she could have never been in the movie “Steel Magnolias” is that she didn’t have enough magnolia. She was all steel.

In my family, you didn’t go to my mom for compassion. You went to my mom for courage and counsel. My mom only respected strength. With my mom, there was no whining, no excuses, no blaming anyone else or shrinking from the fight. The world is tough, she would say, so get tougher.

To fully understand my mom, you’d have to know her story. My grandmother, my mother’s mother, died of breast cancer when my mom was 12 years old. My mom was the oldest of four girls. As the oldest girl, she assumed responsibility for her three younger sisters. My mom never had an adolescence. She became an adult overnight.

And she never looked back. When she had me at 19, I was raised as a little adult. If I was in the room, I was responsible. I was responsible for my little brother. I was responsible for any mess in the house. I was expected to be on time and stand up straight. If something needed to be done, I was taught not to ask permission, but get it done. I can’t tell you how many times I got into trouble for things “I should have known.”

She prayed the same way she lived. Her prayers weren’t polite requests, but reports from the field back to headquarters about the support she needed in order to accomplish the will of God assigned to her. Sometimes, her will and God’s will were hard to distinguish.

Once, when my father was in surgery, the doctor came out and gave us some tough news. According to the doctor, my father was sicker than we thought and the doctor didn’t know if he would make it through the surgery. When he left, I asked my mom if she wanted me to pray. She shook her head yes and I bowed my head to pray. That’s when I felt this sharp elbow hit me in the ribs. “We’re not praying for God’s will,” she said. “You tell God we want Daddy back.”

I knew it was useless to try and explain that as humans, we didn’t tell God anything. My mom wouldn’t have understood. According to her, she and God went way back. They had been talking for years. He would understand. When she died and someone told me she was in a better place, I looked back at them and said, “Oh, she’s not in yet. She’s standing at the gate talking to Jesus about a few things He should have done better.”

My mom was stronger than ammonia. I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. She was tough. She was strong and she didn’t suffer fools at all. She also was a talented musician who filled our home with the pounding chords of the great gospel songs. She took us to church Sunday morning, Sunday night and Wednesday night. She ran the family business with my father until they both retired. She was the best Southern cook you’ve ever known.

Being raised by a strong woman was the best preparation I could have had for leading a Baptist church. I’ve always found it humorous when people argue about women in leadership positions in the church. Every church is filled with strong women who, either formally or informally, weld a lot of power in the life of the local church. When one of these strong women would confront me, they were always surprised when I wasn’t afraid of them. After all, I had been raised by my mother.

Funny thing, whenever the strong women in the church would meet my mother, their respect for me would greatly increase. They could tell my mom had raised me right. From that moment on, these women would become some of my strongest supporters. After all, strength recognizes strength.

She didn’t think women should wear dresses to church. She didn’t think I should wear jeans. After all, she didn’t raise me to be a field hand. She died in 2018 after Alzheimer’s had ravaged her mind – but it never touched her strength. She was as feisty and head strong when died as she ever was when she was living.

I wish I could argue with her one more time. I want to explain to her that the world would never be the way she wanted it to be and I want her to fix her gaze on me and tell me one more time, “Well, it should be.”

Once, when I wouldn’t do something she wanted me to do while she was in the retirement center, I told her, “Mom, I’m not going to change my mind. Remember, I’m your son.” When she heard that, she stepped back from me and said, “I should have done a better job with you. You had so much potential.”

That’s my mom. She taught me there were things worth fighting for and once the fight started, don’t back down. She taught me there’s a right way and a wrong way and what’s right and wrong doesn’t change. She taught me to love hard, pray hard and work hard. She was strong. She raised me to be strong and for that, I’m more grateful than I can say.

I miss her every day. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.

This essay was first posted in Scot McKnight’s newsletter.