Mom loves ice cream. When Mom lived up the street she would call at all hours -- "I just figured you could pick up some ice cream if you were going out." "Mom, I'm in bed. I go to work in two hours." She kept seven piles of one dollar bills across the top of her television each week, and would sit on the porch every evening, waiting for Mr. Softee's jingling truck to appear. In fact, it was ice cream that tipped me off to Mom's diminishing capacities: a spot of chocolate gave me to realize she was wearing the same shirt days in a row. And since she's lived with us, a single spoon lying in the sink eventually exposed her nasty habit of eating ice cream straight from the carton -- and explained the exorbitant quantities of ice cream we were suddenly consuming.
The summer before last, as the ice cream truck chugged its way down our street, I silently promised I'd stash some cash by the front door, for evenings when I was home and could get Mom "her usual." And though we had our share of ice cream that year, I was unable to keep my promise to grab her a spontaneous frosty treat. The ice cream truck that had been one of her favorite parts of summers past, and the driver who knew her by name had eluded me. Last year, more of the same. When the leaves began to fall, and I realized I no longer heard the iconic jingle fading in and out as it weaved its way through our neighborhood, I asked God to allow me to chase that truck at least one last time for Mom. So, here I was, on an unseasonably cold and breezy Spring evening, standing behind a neighbor, waiting for a "twist with chocolate jimmies." In tears (because a t-shirt, shorts and slippers in Fall-like weather don't scream "lunatic" quite loudly enough), I carried my offering across the street and into the house, the immeasurable grace of God before me.
Sitting here, weeks later, trying desperately to communicate to you just how much that moment meant, I realize what a silly little thing it was. But it wasn't to me, and because of who God is, it wasn't to Him. You see, God loves me, and He knows the things that break my heart. One of the hardest things I ever had to do was remove Mom from her home of fifty years. The image of Mom sitting on the porch waiting for the ice cream truck, knowing she would never be that person again, has always caused me to regret the curse of this world. But God gave me the opportunity to serve my mom in a way that was special to both of us. He gave me a gift that touched my heart, assuaged my pain, and brought a huge smile to Mom's face. He allowed me to experience His goodness in a world wracked by uncertainty and sickness and death. That's the kind of God He is. He's a God of grace and kindness. He's a God of the silly little things as well as the big important things. It is His nature to give and give lavishly. And He loves Mom even more than she loves ice cream!
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