Mission from Mom

One particular afternoon, I arrived home from school and noticed my mother's bedroom door was both unlocked and ajar. I knew Hank would be hacked, but since nobody was around, I figured it might be safe to venture in. When she heard me hesitating by the door, she called out.

"Jimmy?"

"Yes, Mom?"

"I'm glad that's you. Come here, Son."

Happy to finally be in her presence, I covered the ground between us quickly and stood next to the edge of her bed. I really wanted to climb up and hug her, but she seemed surprisingly frail. There was so much I wanted to say. I mean, this visit was one of the precious few times that I got to see her in several months.

As my eyes adjusted to the soft, indirect lighting, I noticed her reddish brown, shoulder-length hair had been cropped short. She was much thinner now, of that I was pretty sure. She appeared somewhat smaller, as if her peach nightgown was a few sizes too large. She rested on her left side, a pillow propped against the headboard for support. It was difficult to believe that this was the same lady, with that great sense of humor, who dressed up as an infant by wearing a giant diaper to a party just for laughs.

With a weak yet beautiful smile, Mom explained her request. She asked me to go to the nearby department store, which had a nursery, and buy a packet of chrysanthemum seeds. She wanted me to plant them outside of her bedroom window in the flower bed.

Chrysanthemums?

Never one to miss a teachable moment, she told me to get a pen and paper. I zoomed out of the room, grabbed the items from a kitchen drawer, and then hustled back as fast as I could. I had to return before Hank came along and knocked me out. After all, I was about to be sent on an important mission and didn't want Hank to sandbag it.

Mom slowly spelled out "chrysanthemum" and made sure I had written it down correctly. She pressed some money into my hand and, with a love tap, sent me on my way. I, of course, was happy for the chance to do anything for her. This was a big deal. She had singled me out from the rest of the kids. The fact that she trusted me with such a big assignment was like a gust of wind at my back. I rocketed toward the store.

Of course, I had never planted anything in my life. I didn't know seeds from weeds. But, if mom thought I was up to the challenge, then I just had to get this right. The last thing I wanted to do was to fail her. Upon my return, I read and then reread the instructions on the back of the seed packet. I wanted to be precise with my gardening. If the directions called for three seeds per hole, planted every four inches apart, then that's what I'd do.

With ruler in hand, and garden hose ready, I planted a dozen chrysanthemum clusters in the flowerbed just outside of her window. It was a perfectly straight row, too. I measured those coordinates twice before pushing my forefinger down to the appropriate depth. I think even Hank, the perfectionist, would have approved of the job I was doing.

In an odd way, I felt connected to my mom as I worked. This was our project. We were a team. She had the idea and I got to make it happen. I kept thinking, Boy, she's gonna really love 'em … and won't she be surprised when they bloom just like the picture on the packet.

With a steady hand, I counted out the precise number of seeds, dropped them lovingly into each hole, and, with a gentle pat so as not to crush the life out of them, painstakingly refilled the holes. I served the thirsty seeds their first splash of water. That was the only time I remembered to water them. Gardening was not a priority for a nine-year-old, especially one with a blue Stingray and roads to conquer.

Thankfully, I planted in mid-February, when California was entering the rainy season. Mom's chrysanthemums would get the moisture they needed. After cleaning up, I went inside to tell Mom that the job was done. She was asleep, breathing slow and steady in the darkness. I retreated from her room, careful not to wake her. As it turned out, that would be the last time I was permitted to be with my mom at home until the very end.

*******

Excerpted from Finding Home by Jim Daly. Copyright © 2007. Used by permission of Cook Communication Ministries. Excerpt may not be reproduced without the prior consent of the publisher. All rights reserved.

*******

Like what you've read? You can request a copy of Finding Home here.

---