I wish I could tell you Mom was full of wisdom and offered metaphorical advice at every turn.  On the contrary, Mom’s advice was the treasure you’d find in the bottom of an old sock pile at the local thrift store; unexpected, bizarre and stunningly appropriate for the occasion.  Speaking of, the decor in our home could be described as early thrift store.  This wasn’t so much because Mom loved thrift stores (she did) but because she could never throw anything out.  Mom had a pack-rat’s soul and a gypsy’s heart.

As the middle child, I was the translator of Mom’s crazy schemes.  My older sister was too orderly and logical to get on well enough with Mom.  My younger brother enjoyed Mom’s constant activity but was no better at deciphering her, no better than, well, no better than anyone else, even our father.

Dad…Dad…Dad.  He loved my mother but was constantly bewildered by the naked energy Mom possessed.  I suppose that was partly why he loved her.  My Dad ate the same thing for breakfast every day, at the same time in the same way and would be completely lost if his bagel and his cream cheese weren’t in the refrigerator in the same position as they had been the day before.  Mom humored him in this and was constantly in awe of his ability to daily maintain the same posture.  Her eyes would sometimes widen as she watched him, sober in his routine.  Dad would look over at Mom in these instants, and her face would melt down from astonished to adoring.  Dad would return the look and for an instant they were synchronized.  Then they would each return to their lives, she to scurrying, he to steadfastness.

My sister and Dad floated somewhere above the whirlwind, my brother liked being dizzy and I hovered somewhere near the eye, keeping a lookout and forecasting our next turn…

If I could say anything characterized my growing up years, it would be prayer and almsgiving.  At times, I resented these two things that required so much of me and my family.  Sometimes I appreciated them as a thread I knew would always be there for me to grasp.  Once, I walked away from them entirely, feeling they had betrayed me.  I learned my lesson though.  I went back.
Mom took her prayer and almsgiving seriously.  Not in a street corner preacher kind of way.  She didn’t shout.  In fact, I don’t think my Mom ever shouted.  She didn’t need to; she had that something that just made  you pay attention.  When you were young, especially a teenager who wanted to have your own say about things, this could be trying.  But you knew Mom understood this, and so you listened and swallowed the resentment.

My youngest brother, Zach, was on Mom’s wavelength, especially when it came to almsgiving.  The rest of us didn’t mind the prayer so much as the almsgiving.  You could stand in an attitude of prayer and not really be there.  Mom knew this, but she said, “a prayer on the lips is better than none at all,” having heard this from some great ascetic.  She hoped that if she trained our bodies, the mind and soul would follow.

No the almsgiving was definitely the hard part.  We’re not talking about dropping a few coins in a bucket as you wait at a stoplight in the middle of a busy intersection.  Mom took people in, not just in her heart but right into our house.  She thought that if we had an extra pair of shoes it was if we were stealing from someone who had no shoes, and every downtrodden soul was an angel in disguise.  I don’t think I ever saw Mom turn anyone away if they said they needed help.

My oldest sister, Kat, had the hardest time with Mom’s seemingly outrageous almsgiving.  It unnerved her to come home and find another sad story sitting at the table eating soup.  Kat thought Mom was being taken advantage of.  Mom knew sometimes she was, but it  didn’t matter.  “It’s just stuff,” she’d say to Kat.  It’ll end up in a landfill one way or the other.  It might as well do more than one person some good before it ends up on top of a pile of rot.”

One day, I came home from school and found my brother, Zach, sitting at the table with a new friend he’d found in the street.  Mom hadn’t come home yet and Kat was avoiding them in our room.

“Hey Bree, this is Gabe.  He’s going to probably be staying for dinner.”

Gabe, shifted uncomfortably in his chair.  He had longish, iron colored hair that had seen a shower in a few weeks.  His face was obscured by beard and dirt.  It was hard to tell where the facial hair left off and the dirt started.  Gabe’s eyes, when I got a good look at them, where dark brown.  His clothes, coated with a thin layer of grime, hung on him like oversized drapes.

We heard Mom enter the kitchen behind the dining room with her usual bustle.  “Zach, Bree, Kat” calling as she walked into the dining room, “Who’s home?  Oh, hi.  I see Zach brought home a new friend.  I’m Lily.”

“This is Gabe, Mom.” Zach introduced his new friend.

“We’re glad to have you here, Gabe.  Zach and Bree there are groceries in the car that need to come in.  Where’s Kat?  She can help too.”

“I think she’s in our room, Mom.”

“Ok, well, you get started an I’ll get her out there with you.  I made a big trip and there’s a lot to bring in.  No, no Gabe, you just relax.  We can take care of the groceries.  Actually, I can show you to the bathroom while I’m getting Kat if you’d like to get cleaned up a bit.  I’m sure I’ve got some clean clothes that would fit you…” she continued her speech as she walked out of the room. 

Gabe’s eyes followed her and eventually his body, as if some external force pulled him out of his chair and into the hallway opposite the dining room where the bathroom and Kat’s room were…

Zach and I went through the kitchen to the back porch and down the steps to the car parked in the driveway behind our house.  It was an early fall evening and the air was pleasantly cool but didn’t have the biting chill signifying that winter was on the way.

“Where did you find Gabe?”

“He was hanging around the outside of the coffee shop.  He wasn’t begging, but it was obvious he didn’t have any money or a place to sleep.”

“Or at least get cleaned up,” I added.

“I don’t think he’ll hang around here at all.  But I offered to have him come home and get something to eat.  He seemed OK with that.  Maybe Mom can get him into a bath and some clothes on him at least.   He’s got an old guitar case he left on the front porch before he came in.”

“Well, maybe we’ll get a song later.”

We each filled our arms with grocery bags and walked back up to the porch and into the kitchen.  Kat was on her way out the back door with a scowl on her face.  Somewhere in the general direction of the bathroom, Mom was chattering away at Gabe.

“Does he talk at all?” Mom asked she hustled her way back into the kitchen.

“You don’t exactly give him a chance, Mom,” Zach replied.

“Aww, c’mon.  I’m just being friendly, giving him information, making him feel at home.”

“Feel at home?” Kat had just entered the kitchen with a a load of groceries.  “Why does he need to feel at home, Mother?  I suppose you’re going to let him spend the night?”

“Well, of course, if he needs a place to stay.  We can pull out the futon downstairs for him.  That would be just fine.”

Kat started to leave the kitchen.

“What Kat?”  Mom asked, “What?  Would you rather I just threw some change at him on the street and moved on?  THAT would be easier, wouldn’t it?  Mercy given.  Conscience eased.”

“Yeah. Mom, it would be easier.  I don’t know why you have to let these people into our homes.  There are places for them to go, you know…shelters, soup kitchens.”

“Shelters fill up and soup kitchens run out of food.  Besides, our bodies need more than shelter and soup to feel human.”

“Maybe they don’t want to feel anything.  Perhaps that’s why most of them spend other people’s spare change on alcohol.”

“Good grief, Kat.  Maybe if someone took some time to do more than pass them a plate and point them to a cot, they wouldn’t need alcohol.”

“There are programs for that too, Mom.”

“Programs.  Yeah, OK.  They’re doing wonders, that’s why the plaza downtown is filled every night.  The programs are very successful.”

“Mom you have to want…”

“How can they know what they want?  Maybe they’ve never had chance to find out.”

“You have an answer for everything Mom, we have this same fight every time.”

Mom turned away.  ” Zach and Bree, finish getting the groceries in and start dinner.  I’m going to go make up the futon just in case.”

“What are my orders, Mom?”

“I’m not sure, Kat.”

“I’ll go and finish my homework then.”

“That’s fine.” 

Kat left the room, shoulders square, chin up, robotic.  All of our eyes followed her, but no one said anything.  Until Zach, choosing to avoid the controversy and turn to the mundane.

“Mom, what are we making for dinner tonight?”

“Something quick, like pasta” Mom threw her answer behind her as she breezed through the kitchen door and into the dining room.

Zach looked at me with raised eyebrows.  “Do you want to boil the water or chuck the sauce into a pan?”

“I’m on the water, ” I answered.  “I’ll see if Mom got some salad and bread to go with the pasta.”  Fishing through the bags was also interesting.  Mom wouldn’t use plastic grocery bags and so there was an assortment of cloth and mesh bags to go through.  Because she used her own bags, Mom bagged the groceries herself and her method didn’t reveal much forethought.”

“What was that for?” Zach asked.

“What are you talking about?”

“That big sigh.”

“I sighed?”

“You could’ve blown the wall down with that sigh.”

“Oh, I don’t know.  Life.  Mom and Kat and Dad and You.  Sometimes it feels like, I don’t know.”

Zach looked at me.  He was a funny kid, young but old at the same time.  And he never worried.  There was something about looking into his eyes if you were upset, he knew but couldn’t say what was wrong.  And that feeling he invoked poured a little peace into your soul.