How Did You get in My Mirror, Mom?

It was no secret. I looked like my mother. I heard it all the time. I had even been stopped on the street by people I didn’t recognize. “You must be Ruth Heiner’s daughter,” someone would say.

I assured them I was, and they would often respond by sharing a memory with me. My mother was a lovely person, beautiful and vivacious. I took it as a complement, but at sixteen I didn’t see the resemblance.

That was a long time ago.

Shortly after Mother died, she showed up in my mirror one day. It was a little scary. I thought she was gone, after all. And my mirror, of all places? Shouldn’t some things be sacred?

Though I couldn’t see the resemblance at sixteen, I could see it clearly at fifty- two, and it was no longer flattering. It was okay to look like my mom when she was a teenager, but I didn’t want to like her when she was…well,...old.

What are you doing in my mirror, Mom? How did you get there? I asked the older woman on the other side of the glass.

“You look like me,” she said. “You always have.”

Where did those wrinkles come from, and what about the gray hair?

“Well you do have seven children,” she said with a wink.

I guess I never recovered.

“Did you want to?” she asked with a smile.

No, of course not, I said as I reached for the hair dye.

Did I always have three chins?

“No, dear, but who’s counting?”

She giggled. I glared. What’s so funny? I wondered.

It’s great to see you, Mom, I lied. If I sassed her, would she come after me?

The truth is, I’d love to sit down and visit with Mom. I’d ask her about her new home. “How is Dad,” I’d say. “Do you see your sister much?” I’d want to know if she has made up with her siblings and if Grandpa still swears.

I’d ask her if she plays the organ, and grows bleeding hearts. I’d wonder what kind of quilt frames they use in heaven. I’d ask about our old dog Nikki and the horse she once named Hope.

I’d tell her about her grandkids. The same seven kids that turned my hair gray. They turned out great, I’d say. They are raising fine children and growing wrinkles of their own.

She would smile knowingly, because she’s been keeping track.

That’s only the beginning. I’d ask her about time in heaven. I’ve heard it’s different there, and what does heavenly music sound like? Has she bumped into any of my heroes? Handel? Bach? Joseph Smith? Heber J. Grant? Emma?

We’d have a lot of catching up to do, and if she had advice for me, I’d listen this time for sure. Maybe I’d take notes. Yeah, I’d love to see my mom, I really would. Just not in my mirror.

I have nothing against old people. They’re great. I love those silver haired angels, and who cares if they can’t remember much. You can always be their new best friend, and tomorrow you can do it again. Maybe someday I’ll take up Chinese checkers, or wheel chair racing, but for now…

I don’t want to look old. I don’t want to act old. I feel young inside. Even when my bones ache, and my blood sugar spikes, and I get winded pulling my pantyhose up, inside I’m still sixteen.

Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

Linda Garner

Should I answer the Doorbell?

Has this ever happened to you?

It's 10:00 a.m.. I've been up writing since 6:00 a.m, but I am still in my pajamas and my hair is wild one side and flat on the other, I have dark circles under my eyes from the mascara I didn't wash off last night, and there is broccoli in my teeth. (I get the munchies when I write.) The doorbell rings. What do I do?

When the doorbell rings, I notice the time and realize that it would be really nice if I had dressed and done my hair a little before 10:00. Makeup would be great, but it's a little late for that. It was still dark when I jumped out of bed and ran to my computer. I couldn't wait to get going. Where did the last four hours go?

Should I answer the doorbell? I could hide. What if it's someone important. I peek out the window. There's a car out front. I don't recognize it. What should I do. The person at the door may think I just got up. The person at the door may think that I am lazy or maybe a slob. But I'm not a slob, and I'm not lazy. I try to loosen the broccoli from my teeth with my tongue. Maybe they won't notice. Maybe they don't even know me. If I don't smile they might not see the broccoli. What do I do?

I answer it of course. I'm a little embarrassed, but hey how bad can it be? I know I don't look my best, but I can hold my head up. I can be polite and I can smile. Does that broccoli show?

She does know me. She's a friend. She is dressed up for work and she looks great. In spite of the broccoli, I smile. I don't explain my appearance, even though I know she's probably wondering. She's seen me look better. I don't feel bad.

A gift. She's brought me a gift. It's a thank-you from her girls--the ones I spoke to last week about self-worth. Now I get to practice what I preach. It's not my appearance that makes me worthwhile. It's not my hair, my clothes, my makeup. It's what's inside. It's who I am. It's my Heavenly Father's love.

Can Heavenly Father love me with broccoli in my teeth? Yes. In my pajamas with bed head and mascara circles? Yes.

I thank her for the note, and I open it without glancing in the mirror. I can laugh about that later. The note is awesome. The messages are sweet. The girls get it. For now, they know who they are. And if they remember, that will make the difference.

I look in the mirror and laugh. I pick at the broccoli in my teeth and remember who I am. I am a daughter of God, who loves me. For me, that makes all the difference.

Linda Garner