I haven’t cried for my mom in 10 years.

The last time was May 8^th, 2016. I was alone in my tent, about 11 miles southwest of Pearisburg, Virginia… 623 miles and 58 days into my journey along the Appalachian Trail.

I remember it like it was yesterday. The pain in my bruised feet was excruciating. My right elbow was sore and swollen from an earlier fall. As a side sleeper who rolls around a lot, that made for a restless night. I crawled from my tent, hobbled to a nearby tree, retrieved my food bag, and walked gingerly back to my tent. I sat there for a few minutes rubbing my foot with one hand and eating a pop tart with the other. 

A quick glance at my phone reminded me that it was Mother’s Day, the first since my dear mother had passed away from cancer. Emotion overwhelmed me. I’m not much of a crier—ENTJs tend to not be all that emotionally expressive. But with a mouth full of pop tart, I laid back on my air mattress and had my first good, long AT cry. I thought about my mom and how much I missed my wife. To make matters worse, I was alone in the middle of the Virginia wilderness, nursing an injured elbow, and dealing with foot pain that made it difficult to take a single step, much less cover the 1566 miles remaining. On my 58^th day on the AT, I had reached rock bottom. 

Margaret Elizabeth Johnson… Peg… MeMe… Mom… was a remarkable woman. She had a boundless, unconditional love for her children and grandchildren. She was my biggest fan. 

For a couple of decades, Mom provided respite care to families with special needs children and adults. There was a steady stream of special people who showed up in our home for a few hours or a few days… Lurleen, Tommy, Marge, the list goes on and on. Through her actions, Mom taught me to notice, love, and care for “the least of these”—to find the best in them, wherever I found them.

Mom also had a passion for yard sales and flea markets. On my first treasure hunt with her as a young boy, circa 1972, we walked down Fiddlers Green in Dover, Delaware, pulling a red wagon. At our neighbor’s house, I spotted a box full of used action heroes, priced at 25 cents each. I retrieved a worn Spiderman, incredulous that someone would depart with a still-functioning action hero. I asked Mom if I could get him. She examined him closely, looked toward the heavens, then said, “See if she’ll take 20 cents.” I thought, “Are we that poor?” I walked over to our neighbor and made the offer. She looked at Mom, looked at Spidey, and then told me we had a deal. I came to realize that it wasn’t about the money. It was about the art of the deal—finding the bargain—and using those moments to interact with neighbors.

I could describe how Mom treated every ailment, from runny noses to sucking chest wounds, with J.R. Watkins’ Menthol Camphor cough suppressant rub—better known as “green salve”. The jar reads, “remedies for the body” and mom took that literally. My sisters, our kids, our spouses, and I continue to use the magic ointment regularly. My oldest son Jason still has the original jar MeMe gave him, uses it liberally, and refills it as needed. Mom’s legacy lives on.

I could tell you about Mom’s tendency to fill her purse with crackers and non-dairy creamer containers from restaurant salad bars and tables. She’d tell us, “It’s okay. We’ve already paid for it.”

I could tell you about a thousand Christmas and beach trip memories with Mom at the center. She made sure every family member walked away knowing they were loved.

I’m oh so thankful for Mom. For raising me. For taking me and my sisters to church every Sunday. For loving us unconditionally. 

Mom may be gone in a physical sense, but I’m struck, especially each Mother’s Day, with how her legacy lives on in many ways and through many people. 

When Janet holds a crying Bradford tightly to comfort him from a double ear infection, or caregives her parents for 5+ year, I see Mom.

When daughter-in-law Rachel is up all night, feeding, changing, and holding an upset Roo, I see Mom.

When daughter-in-law Laci juggles the demands of working and serving with motherhood, to help provide for her family, I see Mom.

When I see Rachel and Laci’s moms, Jackie and Tami, care for hurting friends and loved ones, or read Bible stories to their grands, I see Mom.

When I see sibling Ellen distributing special thrift store finds to the family at Christmas, or I see a jar of “green salve” by Stacy’s bedside table, I see Mom.

If your Mom is alive today, be thankful for that. Tell her you love her. Cherish every moment. Tell her you appreciate the sacrifices she surely made to raise you. Store up memories at every opportunity.

If your Mom has died and you’re feeling that loss today, I’m sorry. I feel your pain. I wish I could tell you it was temporary but that hasn’t been my experience. I carry the love and the grief with me but mostly focus on the love. As someone put it, “Grief is the last act of love we have to give those we loved. Where there is deep grief, there was great love.”

If your mom is no longer around physically, I hope you’re able to cling to fond memories of her. 

I hope you’re able to forgive any times when she came up short, something we all do from time to time. 

I hope you’re able to see the best of your mom in the lives of other women, especially mothers, who are still around.

If you knew my Mom, you were blessed. She was not a perfect woman—we all have our struggles. But she loved God and loved her family—words anyone would want on their tombstone.

I said earlier I haven’t cried for my mom in 10 years. Well, that’s no longer true. We’re going to need to reset the clock. 

I love you, Mom! Can’t wait to see you on the other side. Since our bodies require no “remedying” in heaven, I suspect you’ll no longer have that continuous, feint smell of green salve. Or maybe everyone in heaven uses it, God’s way of ensuring no pain or suffering.

Regardless, I’ll find you. I promise you that. I’ll be looking for the dear, sweet, little lady, walking around checking on other souls, pulling a red wagon.