The Ledger

By Becky Holland

Mother’s Day always brings a flood of memories, but this year my mind keeps returning to a simple picture of my mom.

A porch swing.

A book in her hands.

Maybe a pack of peanut butter crackers beside her or an apple she had sliced earlier in the kitchen. A glass of sweet tea, lemonade, water or sometimes a Diet Coke nearby. Georgia air moving softly around her while she disappeared into another story for a little while.

My mother always made God, family and church a priority. Always.

She loved deeply, served faithfully and somehow managed to take care of everyone around her. But somewhere in the middle of all that, she also understood the importance of quiet moments. She knew how to sit still long enough to enjoy a good book and a little peace.

And though I did not fully realize it when I was younger, those moments shaped me more than I ever knew.

For years, I probably would have told you my daddy was the one who gave me my love for storytelling and people. And he certainly played his part. He taught me many things about life and listening and caring about others.

But as I have gotten older, I have realized something else.

It was my mother who first taught me to love words.

She read to me when I was little. Then later, she let me read to her. She listened to my stories, my thoughts, my sentences strung together in ways that probably made no sense at all sometimes. But she listened anyway.

Looking back now, I think that mattered more than I understood then.

The first person who made me believe my words mattered was my mother.

Long before newspapers, deadlines, interviews and websites… there was a woman sitting with a book who quietly planted something in me. A love for stories. A curiosity about people. A comfort with imagination. A respect for language.

She probably never imagined one day her daughter would spend a lifetime chasing words for a living.

But she helped build the writer in me before I even knew one existed.

These days, life looks different for both of us. Age changes things. Dementia changes things. Time changes things.

But even now, when I sit beside her, I still see traces of that woman in the swing with the book in her lap. Still my mother. Still the steady presence who shaped so much of who I became.

And maybe that is one of the great gifts mothers give us.

Not perfection.

Not grand speeches.

But thousands of ordinary moments that quietly become part of us forever.

This Mother’s Day, I am thankful for every story she read to me, every story she listened to me tell and every small moment that led me toward the life I now live.

Happy Mother’s Day, Momma.

And thank you for the words.