Wearing Her Clothes

My mother grew up believing she was not beautiful.

She was wrong, of course, but in a world that values thin-legged blondes, Mom was the un-Barbie. She was tall and dark-haired and her legs were decidedly sturdy.

But because she believed she was not beautiful, Mom became stylish. She chose clothes that were perfect for her and gave them her own touch--an oversized piece of jewelry, or an unexpected scarf.

And because she was stylish, my mother grew more beautiful every year of her life. She didn't care that the skin around her eyes was wrinkling; that was a product of smiling, and she was nearly always smiling. She was comfortable in her clothes, and in her skin, and her attitude reflected her belief that all would be well.

Every once in a while she sent me home from a visit with a bag full of her hand-me-ups. "That jacket looks better on you," she would say, and because she knew my style better than I did, she was usually right.

Now that Mom is gone, I find myself going through my closet and touching the clothes she gave me. Somehow her essence has survived wearing and laundering and dry cleaning, and it's comforting to know that the fabric I touch also touched her skin.

My extended family is sailing into some uncharted seas right now. We have full confidence that God is captain of our ship, but we don't know what kind of voyage He may be taking us on, and there may be some rough waters before we reach port. (Have I milked that metaphor enough?)

This morning, I put on a vest and skirt Mom gave me, and as I look down at the clothes she once wore I borrow some of her style and her calm.

I trust that all will be well.