I was 45 before I began to forgive Mama. Any time I\u2019d go back to Oklahoma for a visit, folks would ask, \u201cDo you see your mother?\u201d Really they were asking, \u201cHave you forgiven your mother?\u201d<\/p>\n
My answer was always, \u201cOf course. I see her. I forgave Mama years ago.\u201d But the minute the words left my lips, a little voice in my head would whisper, \u201cSure.\u201d<\/p>\n
I knew in my heart that Mama was a big part of the reason I\u2019d left Oklahoma and moved to Colorado. My mother\u2019s alcoholism, her drastic mood swings and her unpredictable behavior had become too much of a challenge for me to deal with after 20 long years.<\/p>\n
I never forgot the day she left our family. When I thought of her, that was all I remembered.<\/p>\n
\u201cI have to go away,\u201d she announced that morning in 1955, just as the four of us kids started out the door for school. She was crying and very distraught, which was impossible for my seven-year-old brain to process.<\/p>\n
All I knew was that our lives changed drastically the day Mama drove away from our farm with all of her things packed in the old station wagon. Sis, at 13, became the \u201cchief cook and bottle washer,\u201d Dad said. I lent a hand with cooking, cleaning and laundry, while my two brothers did extra chores at the barn in order for Dad to be able to buy groceries and attend to his new motherly duties along with his full-time job and our 160-acre farm.<\/p>\n
Mama did return a few times. But before long, all of us knew the pattern by heart. Tears of remorse, talk of a happy future, and then another emotional departure, often in the middle of the night.<\/p>\n
We were the first kids at our rural Oklahoma school to have a parent leave home. It was a dubious distinction that set us apart in a weird way. I worked hard at defending my feisty Scotch-Irish mother. \u201cShe has a restless spirit,\u201d I\u2019d say to my friends. Later, I\u2019d hide beneath the willow trees with my dog and cry.<\/p>\n
I was a teenager before I realized that Mama\u2019s erratic behavior was directly related to the amount of alcohol she consumed. That\u2019s when the anger really began to smolder.<\/p>\n
Still, I\u2019d leave my dad\u2019s new home in southern Oklahoma and return in the summer to wherever my mother happened to be living and whichever new husband she happened to be living with. I\u2019d proceed to have a \u201crelationship,\u201d which usually ended with her disappearing and me left in the wake. Summer after summer, I simply collected more bad memories of Mama.<\/p>\n
Sometime in my late thirties, after years of effort and disappointment, after watching Mama go in and out of rehab, after seeing her behavior destroy my brothers, and after listening long distance to my older sister\u2019s endless frustration in trying to handle Mama, I said, \u201cEnough.\u201d<\/p>\n
And for a long while, I didn\u2019t communicate with my mother at all. She would write letters and make an occasional call, but I\u2019d quit. Of course, the anger didn\u2019t quit, and I went into counseling.<\/p>\n
My counselor\u2019s advice to forgive Mama and just let go of the past sounded good, but doing it wasn\u2019t easy. I prayed daily about forgiveness and gradually, God began to work on my heart. I realized that anger was not a legacy I wanted to leave my son and grandchildren.<\/p>\n
So on a trip back to Oklahoma, I called Mama. It had been more than five years since I\u2019d communicated with her. I knew from talking with Sis and my younger brother that nothing much had changed. She was older, of course, and had settled down a bit, but still drank and got crazy.<\/p>\n
I clutched the ringing phone to my ear. \u201cLord, please help me do this.\u201d<\/p>\n
Mama seemed thrilled to hear my voice. \u201cLoudee,\u201d she said, but the way the old nickname rolled off of her tongue, I knew she\u2019d already had a drink or two that afternoon.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m in Oklahoma, Mama. Thought I might come see you in the morning.\u201d Just the thought made my stomach ache, but I knew mornings were usually safer. At least they used to be.<\/p>\n
There was a brief pause. \u201cI\u2019m going to a country church over in Marland,\u201d Mama said. \u201cWould you like to come?\u201d<\/p>\n
The invitation was exactly what I needed. Church might be a conversation we could have without dredging up the past.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat would be good,\u201d I said, and I exhaled and relaxed my tight grip on the phone.<\/p>\n
But that Sunday morning, when I pulled up and parked in front of Mama\u2019s rented house, I needed more help. \u201cPlease give me the strength to do this.\u201d<\/p>\n
The moment Mama opened the door, the wonderful smell of homemade soup met me. The combination of browned beef, garlic, stewed carrots and potatoes drifted into my nose and caused a flood of nostalgic emotions. My best memories of Mama were centered in the kitchen at the old farm. Mama singing in the kitchen. Mama over the sink, peeling peaches. Mama at the stove, frying chicken on Sunday.<\/p>\n
\u201cI thought we could have soup and corn bread after church,\u201d Mama said. Her hair was white and she looked very frail.<\/p>\n
A vision of her younger self flashed before me. \u201cMama, do you remember that time on the farm when you told me about the angels helping you make soup?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
Mama\u2019s crisp giggle filled the room. \u201cYes,\u201d she said, taking my coat and putting it on the couch. \u201cWe were in the kitchen. You must have been about four.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI asked you how you knew what to add to the soup pot. You told me, \u2018Ingredients just pop into my head, like magic. Onion, celery, peppers…I think the angels whisper the ingredients in my ear.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d Mama said, smiling. \u201cThen you said, \u2018We\u2019re having Angel Soup.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n