MOTHER’S DAY IS FAST APPROACHING and my mind went back many years ago to a TV program called, I Remember Moma (I guess I’m showing my age now). It was broadcast from 1949 to 1957 on CBS. It was a 30 minute show in black and white about a Norwegian-American family living in San Francisco in 1910---a wholesome program, something that is sadly missing today.
The story was told through the eyes of daughter Katrin (Rosemary Rice). The lead roles were by Peggy Wood as Marta Hansen and Judson Laire as Papa Hansen.
Sadly, except for the last 13 weeks, Mama was telecast live rather than filmed and so we have no taped record of the show.
The show opened by Katrin looking through the pages of the family album and remembering.
I remember my momma too. She has been gone since 1967, but her life lives on in me. Even now, after all these years, I have occasional dreams about her.
I remember momma tucking me in at night, giving me a sweet kiss on the forehead, something that I didn’t relish at the time, but would love to feel at this moment.
I remember momma caressing me as I lay in bed suffering from pneumonia on three different occasions as a pre-teen. She gently placed a cold washcloth on my feverish brow and told me I would be all right. I needed to hear those words; they kept me going.
I remember momma hugging me before I had my appendix removed and the daily visits in the hospital. At times like these, when a boy is full of fright, he needs his momma more than anything.
I remember momma welcoming the young lady who would become my wife into our family and treating her as one of her own---and sharing her amazing recipes!
I remember momma, sharing words of warning and wisdom when I was growing up. I didn’t always heed them at the time, but neither did I forget them.
I remember momma giving me my first Bible with a beautiful inscription on the inside cover. I cherished that KJV and used it till it fell apart.
I remember momma disciplining me (I always had it coming) and then through tears, telling me she was sorry, but it was necessary. When she said it hurt her more than me, I didn’t believe her. But years later, when I had to apply some discipline to my own children, I understood she was speaking of the pain of the soul.
I remember momma’s last day here on earth. She lay in a hospital bed, terminally ill at age 52. The last time she spoke to me, she asked if I would read from the Bible and have a prayer for her. What son would ever deny his mom such a request. I did it with mixed emotions, knowing that it could well be my last opportunity to minister to someone I dearly loved.
I remember momma going to the altar of our little church, giving her heart to Christ. It was one of the happiest moments of my entire life!
I long to see her again, take her in my arms and tell her that I love her. She is waiting for me in Gloryland and one day we will be reunited again.
In the meantime, I remember momma and I smile.