After a late night canning (what else?),
and a rough night with Lincoln,
I woke up this morning aching all over with a persistent pounding headache.
As I lay there contemplating the day ahead,
I thought of the hundreds of pears waiting for me in the garage
(they took longer than I expected to ripen)
and the 150 pounds of peaches I picked up yesterday,
in addition to all of the day's normal tasks,
and I began to feel overwhelmed.
In a bit of a frenzy, I threw myself into the morning's duties,
hoping to start my long day of canning early.
And then, just after I prepped jars in the sink,
my boys' excited shrieks announced a visitor at the door.
There stood my mom, who had come to drop off her blancher for me to use,
clad in a purple apron,
cookies in hand for little boys,
ready to help.
And for the next several hours,
she stood at my kitchen sink, peeling and slicing peaches with her able hands
and lifting my spirit with her positive conversation,
as together we worked to preserve food and family values.
Although I was too stubborn to admit I could use some help,
she came to my rescue once again.
And it's during moments like these that I am reminded how grateful I am
for my Mom,
her continually serving, giving hands,
and the sacrifices she has made to make those hands so readily available to us.