Now that we’re just around the corner from the holidays, memories from my childhood remind me that grace begins at home. Growing up, I thought my life was as normal as anyone else’s with its mix of good days and challenging ones. We went to church twice on Sundays plus Wednesday nights. We kept up our house and yard, and always had all the aunts, uncles, and cousins over for our birthday parties. How did I know anything different since the only examples of perfect families were on television. They went by titles such as “Leave It to Beaver” and “Father Knows Best.” Even as a child I knew that these families were not real.

Lace petticoats dripping with starch hung on the clothesline in my childhood backyard. I wore hand-me-down bobby socks and penny loafers. Yep, it was the late 50s and the best decade in which to grow up. Unless it was the night for Roy Rogers, the Lone Ranger, or Superman reruns, my two brothers and I played outside until dark almost year-round. 

Why wouldn’t I think my childhood was typical? I had a mother who stayed home to take care of my two brothers and me. Like most families, my dad went to work but always came home to us. It was years before I realized that my childhood was actually radically different, marked by my mother’s battle with bi-polar manic depression. I now know that it took heroic work on the part of both my parents to ensure that my brothers’ and my growing up years were as normal as they could make them under the circumstances.

My mother’s temperament and mood swings were all my brothers and I knew, so they seemed ordinary to us. We learned early that Mother had three main emotional states—sad, mad and glad. The way my mom felt emotionally on any given day decided the “weather” in our home. 

It’s easy to recall what Mother’s glad or happy days were like. She always cooked and baked special things when she felt good. I can remember coming home from school, and Mother would whip up three or four pies right then and there while we eagerly watched. 

I still remember how multiple pies lined up on the counter to cool made my little girl heart sing. On those days I knew that Mother felt well and that our lives were easier and more pleasant, at least for a while. Even decades later, I smile as I think about Mother’s glad days. Seeing Mother smile and laugh with us gave us hope. Those happy times softened the effects of the rough days. Today, the grown-up me sees God in those moments. They were like His own grace gifts that helped us make it through the dark days which always seemed just right around the corner.

Mother’s sad and mad days came on as quickly and inexplicably as the glad ones. As a child, I never knew what turned a perfectly pleasant and cheery day to one that brought my mother deep pain and unhappiness. What I did learn early on was to just embrace the joyful intervals…to store up those happy moments when pie defined normal.

There were other days when Mother’s depression swept over her and took her away from us to a miserable place in her mind…a place we hated. On those days, we walked in after school to a dark house where the blinds and curtains were drawn closed, and Mom would be in bed. There were no luscious smells in the air, nor laughter or bantering about how our school day had been.

I remember sometimes being afraid on those days and wondering about supper. Then I’d hear my dad’s car in the driveway and eventually the clumping sound of his work boots on the kitchen linoleum. I’d run to check and sure enough, my dad was home. I’d run to hug him and he smelled of diesel fuel and the greasy odors of the train yard where he worked as a switchman.

Even now, my eyes tear up thinking how those whiffs of pungent smells were as precious to me as the freshly baked pies of the day before.  Dad would fix us supper and then see to our homework and our baths. He would tuck us into bed and hear our prayers, still smelling of his workplace.

What remarkable evidence of God’s care and grace! I am amazed and grateful that our Heavenly Father watched over and protected the heart and spirit of the little girl who grew up to be me. Without a doubt, my love of the Lord and my heart for others and ministry developed even as I lived through my childhood and experienced my mother’s sad, mad, glad days.

So I ask you again. Have you ever smelled grace? I hope you have, and I pray that you can remember that exact aroma right now.  I John 4:7 “My dear friends, we must love each other. Love comes from God, and when we love each other, it shows that we have been given new life. We are now God’s children and we know Him.”

YOUR TURN:

Do you have a childhood memory you can share that reminds you of God’s grace and love? What is your happiest memory of your parents? Thank you for sharing with all of us in the comment section. You never know when something you write might help someone. Thanks!