IT WAS THE BEST OF TIMES . . . IT WAS THE WORST OF TIMES . . .

One of my favorite memories from my childhood is when my mom would come tuck us in to bed at night. There were seven of us children, so the ritual had to be time consuming and exhausting for her, but she would take a few moments with each of us, one-by-one, and say prayers with us (or listen to our prayers), and then take a moment or two to talk and listen . . . She would always ask each of us "what was the worst thing that happened to you today?" followed by "and what was the best thing that happened to you today?" . . .

I think the order of her questions was deliberate . . . It was a chance to unload and share some humiliation or heartache -- large or small -- after it had had a little time to lose some of its newness and the fresh sting . . . Being picked last for a team . . . a friend's betrayal . . . something upsetting that had been witnessed . . . a discouraging setback . . . some real or imagined injustice . . . nothing was too inconsequential or too monumental to be shared in those quiet twilight moments when you had mom's attention all to yourself . . .

Somehow the simple act of sharing them immediately made the burden lighter . . . NOTHING seemed quite as awful afterwards, and she always had a few words of encouragement that made it bearable, somehow . . .

Then, with her second question focusing on some triumph or happy surprise, it was a chance to relive the spotlight, and remember the highlight of the day . . . an unexpectedly good grade on a spelling test . . . a new friend made at recess . . . the discovery of a new talent . . . a book that had captivated and delighted . . . a funny joke that begged to be repeated . . . How I would SEARCH my memory of the day's activities to decide just WHICH happy thing had been the best of all . . . That exercise kept us focused on -- and grateful for -- ALL the little happy triumphs that day had held . . .

Looking back, she probably only spent a few minutes at each of our bedsides . . . but it was a comforting ritual that ended each day with a secure feeling of sweetness and love . . . For that few moments you had her ENTIRE attention and she was yours, alone . . .

I absolutely LOVE those memories . . .

It is a tradition that I tried to pass along to my own children . . . and it is nowhere near as easy as it sounds like it would be . . . Some days were EXHAUSTING, and I wanted to just stick my kids in their beds and simply pray they would stay there . . . Still, I tried my imperfect best . . . because I wanted with all my heart for MY children to close their days with that same sense of cherished security that I had had . . .

I do not know that I did it as well as she did . . . but I did try . . .





And still . . . all these years down the road . . . some nights as I lay in bed waiting to fall asleep . . . I can still feel her gentle soothing touch on my forehead and I wish SO much that I could again have her sit on the edge of my bed and ask me those two questions again . . .




Thank you, mom . . . Thank you SO much . . .