Dear Mom,
Today is your birthday and though I don’t remember how I started loving you, I do remember a pivotal time when it mattered.
I remember being four years old. No, I really do. I may not remember every detail of July 7th or November 21st, but I can tell you pivotal occurrences altering my life. All four years of my life. And you are one of them.
In 1984 we lived in a tan apartment building with brown trim. We lived on the first floor of the complex with a blue linoleum kitchen floor. You were pregnant during the holidays and I hoped my Christmas present would be a new little sister. I hosted tea parties which you attended under the concrete stairwell outside the tan apartment with brown trim. We sipped imaginary tea and passed toy food, like plastic eggs and rubber meat. My bedroom faced a busy boulevard and at night I heard people yelling, but I felt safe because you prayed each night for angels to encamp our home as you closed our brown door with brass knob.
But nothing compares to what happened in the parking lot of the US Post Office on Main Street one grey, cloudy afternoon in 1984.
Dressed neatly and waiting on the porch, Debbie Carr picked us up to run errands in her beige station wagon. Pregnant, bulbous and slow-moving, you gratefully accepted an invitation from our church friend to assist in taking care of some chores.
Grocery market, laundry mat, pharmacy, post office. I was only four years old but I remember.
I remember the smell of the musty car interior. I remember the beige floor mats. I remember the feel of your belly pressed into my back as I sat in the front seat with you around town. I remember feeling special and lucky and excited to have a mom with a baby in her belly.
And I remember the sharp, piercing sound that changed everything.
We pulled into the post office parking lot and wedged the car into a narrow parking stall. My four year-old hand unlatched the door lock and carefully climbed out of the passenger seat so as to not squash you or my unborn sister who I already loved. I held the door open as your feet plopped to the floor and slowly exited the car.
I turned around just in time to see a man in a dark blue, hooded sweatshirt sprint past us carrying a bag. No more than a minute later I heard yelling and screaming and saw you duck back into the car while simultaneously grabbing my arms, pulling me backwards.
We fell into the musty car, onto the beige mats, and heard the gun shot that followed. Like large semaphores, your arms signaled danger and screamed not to move. You flung her arms over my body and pressed your belly down onto me as I hunkered down on the car floor with the beige mats.
I felt you cry and heard her pray. Under the shield of your arms and long, auburn hair, I was in a dark refuge. I couldn’t see anything but small gap in between your neck and shoulder, allowing a flare of light to come in. I was safe. I was protected. I was covered.
The police car pulled in behind us, vibrating the car floor in the exact pattern of the siren. I held my breath and listened to the officer’s amplified voice shout into the microphone. He commanded the sprinter to stop running. He was surrounded. He wasn’t going to get hurt. He just had to stop shooting.
A deafening silence ensued until the amplified voice reappeared. Put the weapon down, they said. Walk with your hands up, they commanded. Lay on the ground, they instructed. Silence.
Happy birthday, momma. I love you more today than yesterday. But not as much as tomorrow.
He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and protection. Psalm 91:4
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