One Thanksgiving Day after her Fifth Step, she began to see her mother in a brand-new way
It was almost Thanksgiving, and I had five months of sobriety. I was still working on my Fourth Step, and my mother headed the list of people who I resented—big time. In meetings I would often share about all the ways that my mother had negatively impacted my life and probably contributed to my drinking. I never called her Mother or Mom; I always referred to her by her first name, Janet. That validated our distance and minimized our relationship—so I thought.
Finally brave enough to face my Fifth Step, I poured out my anger and disappointment regarding my relationship with Janet. After listening, my sponsor gently encouraged me to start calling her Mom. Reluctantly I agreed. I also changed my actions. I sent her a card for no special occasion, not because of all the warm feelings I had for her, but because I knew she enjoyed receiving mail, and again, because my sponsor suggested it.
My sponsor made several additional suggestions which I followed reluctantly, even though I knew that none of these little actions would ever change things with my mother. That ship had sailed.
But Thanksgiving morning, I stood at my kitchen sink peeling carrots for the day’s feast as I had done many times before. I imagined that I was in the army on KP and had to be quick. I expertly flipped the carrot in my left hand, not missing a beat to peel the long shreds with my right. Suddenly, I found myself staring at my hands and noticing the fine web of lines and a few brown age spots … the shape of them and the sureness with which I perform the task … exactly as Janet had taught me. And the most extraordinary thing happened in that moment. They became my mother’s hands!
All of a sudden a wave of memories washed over me. The way that she knew all the botanical names of plants and how she had shared that love with me. The crinkle of my mother’s leather jacket as I snuggled under her arm on a windy day at the beach. The moments when she let down her guard and looked fragile. Her tears as she and I whispered our goodbyes to her mother in the hospital as she left this world. The memories kept coming, and my own tears, long suppressed, poured down as I watched those strong and capable hands complete the task. I’ll never forget that sense of peace I had in my kitchen as I finished the cooking, truly thankful for what my mother had given me, rather than being disappointed at what she had not. It’s a Thanksgiving I won’t ever forget.