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The baggy yellow shirt had long sleeves, four extra-large
pockets trimmed in black thread and snaps up the front. It
was faded from years of wear, but still in decent shape. I
found it in 1963 when I was home from college on Christmas
break, rummaging through bags of clothes Mom intended to
give away.
You're not taking that old thing, are you?" Mom said when
she saw me packing the yellow shirt. "I wore that when I was
pregnant with your brother in 1954!"
"It's just the thing to wear over my clothes during art
class, Mom. Thanks!" I slipped it into my suitcase before
she could object.
The yellow shirt became a part of my college wardrobe. I
loved it. After graduation, I wore the shirt the day I moved
into my new apartment and on Saturday mornings when I
cleaned.
The next year, I married. When I became pregnant, I wore the
yellow shirt during big-belly days. I missed Mom and the
rest of my family, since we were in Colorado and they were
in Illinois. But that shirt helped. I smiled, remembering
that Mother had worn it when she was pregnant, 15 years
earlier.
That Christmas, mindful of the warm feelings the shirt had
given me, I patched one elbow, wrapped it in holiday paper
and sent it to Mom. When Mom wrote to thank me for her
"real" gifts, she said the yellow shirt was lovely. She
never mentioned it again.
The next year, my husband, daughter and I stopped at Mom and
Dad's to pick up some furniture. Days later, when we
uncrated the kitchen table, I noticed something yellow taped
to its bottom. The shirt!
And so the pattern was set.
On our next visit home, I secretly placed the shirt under
Mom and Dad's mattress. I don't know how long it took for
her to find it, but almost two years passed before I
discovered in under the base of our living-room floor lamp.
The yellow shirt was just what I needed now while
refinishing furniture. The walnut stains added character.
In 1975 my husband and I divorced. With my three children, I
prepared to move back to Illinois. As I packed, a deep
depression overtook me. I wondered if I could make it on my
own. I wondered if I would find a job. I paged through the
Bible, looking for comfort. In Ephesians, I read, "So use
every piece of God's armor to resist the enemy whenever he
attaches, and when it is all over, you will be standing up."
I tried to picture myself wearing God's armor, but all I saw
was the stained yellow shirt. Slowly, it dawned on me.
Wasn't my mother's love a piece of God's armor? My courage
was renewed.
Unpacking in our new home, I knew I had to get the shirt
back to Mother. The next time I visited her, I tucked it in
her bottom dresser drawer. Meanwhile, I found a good job at
a radio station. A year later I discovered the yellow shirt
hidden in a rag bag in my cleaning closet. Something new had
been added. Embroidered in bright green across the breast
pocket were the works "I BELONG TO PAT." Not to be outdone,
I got out my own embroidery materials and added an
apostrophe and seven more letters. Now the shirt proudly
proclaimed, "I BELONG TO PAT'S MOTHER."
But I didn't stop there. I zigzagged all the frayed seams,
then had a friend mail the shirt in a fancy box to Mom from
Arlington, VA. We enclosed an official-looking letter from
"The Institute for the Destitute," announcing that she was
the recipient of an award for good deeds. I would have given
anything to see Mom's face when she opened the box.
But, of course, she never mentioned it. Two years later, in
1978, I remarried. The day of our wedding, Harold and I put
our car in a friend's garage to avoid practical jokers.
After the wedding, while my husband drove us to our
honeymoon suite, I reached for a pillow in the car to rest
my head. It felt lumpy. I unzipped the case and found,
wrapped in wedding paper, the yellow shirt. Inside a pocket
was a note: "Read John 14: 27-29.
I love you both, Mother."
That night I paged through the Bible in a hotel room and
found the verses: "I am leaving you with a gift: peace of
mind and heart. And the peace I give isn't fragile like the
peace the world gives. So don't be troubled or afraid.
Remember what I told you: I am going away, but I will come
back to you again. If you really love me, you will be very
happy for me, for now I can go to the Father, who is greater
than I am. I have told you these things before they happen
so that when they do, you will believe in me."
The shirt was Mother's final gift. She had known for three
months that she had terminal Lou Gehrig's disease. Mother
died the following year at age 57.
I was tempted to send the yellow shirt with her to her
grave. But I'm glad I didn't, because it is a vivid reminder
of the love-filled game she and I played for 16 years.
Besides, my older daughter is in college now, majoring in
art. And every art student needs a baggy yellow shirt to
wear to art class.
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