Meredith’s Musings | Mom’s Notes

article by Meredith McKinnie

I attended Pre-K-4 in a local church. We wore navy polo shirts and khaki skirts. Mom scooped my hair in half ponytails with matching bows. She has pictures of me at a square wooden desk, enormous against my small frame, with my crinkled brown paper bag lunch in the corner. I mention that lunch bag because mine contained something special, something the other kids didn’t have. Mom always left little notes. “Have a wonderful day, Meredith. I love you, Mom.” Each day had some iteration of the same message. It wasn’t what she said as much as how it made me feel. It was almost like Mom was sitting there with me, or that she wanted to be. Each day my friends would ask about my note, and I proudly showed off the cursive script that I’d learned to read. I felt superior because Mom never let me down. Lunchbox notes were standard practice.

Years later as a budding teenager, we traveled to summer church camps in Texas – one week away from home. We would meet for breakfast in the cafeteria, spend the morning in various praise meetings, then the afternoon in various sports. In the evenings, when everyone gathered in the chapel in their Sunday best, it was time for mail call. Monday’s call list was often abbreviated, as parents didn’t usually send mail until further into the week. But without fail, on the first night, the preacher would yell, “Meredith McKinnie.” I’d leap out of my chair and saunter down the aisle to collect my envelope as everyone watched with envy. Since this was before cell phones, the postal service was our only connection to home outside phone calls. It never failed, that I was either the only name called Night One or one of few. As I walked back to my seat, I felt all the eyes on me. They knew my parents missed me before I even left. I had proof. Mom wrote me a letter. I don’t remember the contents of the letters. Mom is typically brief. But I do remember feeling remembered. And I knew I would have one every night that followed. Mom made sure of it and mailed them accordingly. I rarely called home, as Dad took phone charges seriously in our house, but I knew I was missed. And Mom understood the importance of public proclamations.

Perhaps my love of the written word originated with Mom’s letters. It probably involved a multitude of factors. But there’s something about handwritten notes that add that layer of sentimentality, a rarity in our evolving, digital world. Although I am now an adult with children of my own, Mom still prefers handwritten cards. We get them in the mail on birthdays, anniversaries, and special occasions. Once a few years ago, Mom and I had an argument. I left her house in a huff, determined to not be the one to break first. A few days went by, and I got a card in the mail. The stationery was blank, and scribbled inside in that familiar cursive script was simply, “I’m sorry. Love, Mom.” I crumbled on the inside. We didn’t really talk about the incident again, as that’s not her way. But she reached out in the way we communicate in each other’s absence.

This Mother’s Day, I am grateful for my Mom, who always lets me know I’m missed, who has the foresight to write it down – on the off chance that I’ll keep it and stumble across her words again. It doesn’t take long passages to let someone know they’re loved. Sometimes it’s the simple act of remembering to reach out.