My mother loved the store. It brought joy to her heart just to be in one. The standard department stores and drug stores impressed her with delight. Usual items such as lipstick, nail polish and gum were only a sample of what my mother would find. Two of the prettiest I’ve ever seen Christmas stockings with portions of the biblical story inscribed on each are mine because she spotted them in the decoration aisle many years ago.  Notebooks, stationary, makeup, ball point pens, night creams, hosiery, a yo-yo, chewing gum, a snicker bar and such could be her usual bundle. At Christmas time, Bob’s Candy Canes, the assortment of hard jelly filled candies were added, along with York Peppermint patties and some kind of finger Christmas toy. Remember the kind(below) you’d push at the bottom and the jointed object at the top would collapse? 

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I’m not sure when the joy of the store came into play since my mother grew up in the Georgia Baptist Children’s Home. It possibly originated after she graduated from the home at the age of 20 and spent her single days living in Atlanta, GA. She worked and had some disposable income for the first time in her life. Whatever the reason, the store was a special place for my mother.

Back in her single days, some of the best stores in and around the Atlanta area were Woolworth’s and Rich’s. All through our growing-up years, her excitement over a store was in the background of my memories. I think mother felt like going to the store could make everything better. Once we moved to Mississippi, she enjoyed McRaes, and it was a big disappointment when McRaes eventually closed.

One year near Christmas, I took my mother to a Walgreens near her assisted living. I knew it would be challenging, but I thought giving her this joy was worth any challenge. By this time, my mother’s short-term memory was failing. Repetitive questions and conversation were how this manifested. In addition, her hearing and sight were quite limited, making her perception of her environment closed off and inaccurate.

 I visited regularly and often took children’s story books, a small craft that could be completed during the visit for her to keep, or we’d make videos on my iPhone, read the Bible, sing hymns and color. Sometimes I took her places.

One of the last Christmas seasons I spent with her I arrived at her apartment and informed her we would soon leave, and while we were out, we’d go to Walgreens so she could Christmas shop. Her excitement showed as she said, “Oh boy,” and I assisted her in getting ready. She cheerfully shattered like a child. As quick as she could get ready, we’d be out the door, walking the long halls slowly until we signed out and exited to the parking lot.

Always, she was happy as a bird in a newly blossomed tree. Hearing her chatter so joyfully pierced my heart every time. It made me sad for her to be this happy over a trip to a store. But her world was small now, her independence virtually gone. I had to focus on her joy.

At the store, she would stare intently at any item she held because she only had limited vision. I gave her all the time she needed and as long as she didn’t need me, I’d scurry around picking up items she needed back in her residential room. When I’d return she would show me things she’d picked out. It was her Christmas shopping for everyone in the family and whatever she chose was what they received. Her heart was drowning in the moments of each selection as she enjoyed the independence of choice and thoughts of the receiver. A sense of empowerment must have swept her soul as she pushed the cart to the register and all her items were accounted for. Soon we’d be out the door and my mind was swirling trying to think of how to handle the struggle I knew would come about going back to the assisted living.

Back in the car, and as I was backing out of the lot, my mother broke my heart in two when she said, “Valerie, you’re not taking me back, are you?” She asked me this every time I’d take her out, and she would become aware of the routine, the sense of conclusion to an outing, and heading back to a place that would separate us. This time, I prayed as tears filled my eyes, and I said, “No, mama, we’re going to look at the decorations in this neighborhood.” I acted like this was planned, but I could tell she perceived the area and knew it was near where she lived. Even as she understood she was on her way back to where she lived, she tried to be a trooper as we drove around the streets looking at the decorations.

I’m thankful mama is living her most perfect life now. No more struggle with how she wished things could be. I can only imagine that although she was grateful for her childhood in a Christian institution, she had an ideal life she lived inside her head, and only sometimes did real life here match up with that scenario.

But that is no longer the case. She is well and whole, and I know she is content and entirely at peace with life with Jesus, every longing fulfilled and every unspoken hurt defeated. I’m thankful my mother is in heaven worshiping Jesus. I wonder if she is playing her violin and visiting with some wonderful friends she met in Atlanta who helped her see she needed a Savior to forgive her. Hopefully, there is a store, and if there is, she is buying things for everyone and a little something for herself because, as I said, my mother loved a store.

But if my mother could speak now, she would want every person reading about her to know Jesus. He’s the One who purchased her life on the cross, paid her sin debt, and made her able to be with Him when she died. She would want you to know Him. If you want to know Him, Click or tap on this safe link and learn how you can.

©Valerie Rumfelt

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