The seventh pew from the back

She lay fragile and weak beneath the bright lights on the cold sterile table, that for so many she had known, had meant certain death. The illness that consumed her limbs had take from her, the ability to be the girl that ran to catch the football her brothers had thrown her and the girl that would hold the record for fastest driver around the track. The illness that took the possibility to be the girl she wanted to be had left her alone on a cold sterile table beneath the bright lights that now drenched her in darkness as she counted slowly backwards from 100.
She slumberly awakened, not to a cold sterile table, not beneath bright lights, nor to a girl unable to walk and yet not to a girl running to catch a football or strapped in behind the wheel of a race car.
She wakened to a women, who had not broken records or ran to catch anything, but to a women who suffered and sacrificed to be; not someone amazing or great, but just to be. She looked upon all these children that uttered no praise and handed her no medals, they held up their hands only to be held.
She looked upon a kitchen table with children waiting impatiently with their plates, to be fed. She looked upon a pile of laundry expecting to be cleaned, folded and put away.
She looked upon a candle lit table in a cozy restaurant that the women would not be a guest at because next to the cozy restaurant was a dress shop with a gown in the window that would make her daughters eyes shine a breath taking blue.
She looked upon a pair of glasses that weren’t bent in the middle and made her sight more than just a little clearer, a pair the women would never wear as long as the grocery list grew.
She looked upon a closet, full of old worn out hand-me-downs and thrift store clearances, the women called her own. She looked upon the seventh pew from the back with the family dressed in their Sunday best and the little ones fidgeting and questioning, high above a whisper, "is it almost over?".
She looked upon the women she had awakened to, wondering why she had no complaints and never questioned the sacrifices she had to make, and then she looked up, to see the women’s maker looking upon her, constructing a mansion with tears of joy running down his face. Her maker was not constructing her mansion, for hers had been completed for quite some time. He was constructing, yet another mansion, for one of the children that held up no medals, only their hands to be held and that she lovingly picked up; for one who impatiently waited to be fed and she filled their plate; for one who’s eyes shined a breath taking blue because she was not a guest at the cozy restaurant; for one who sat fidgeting in their Sunday best on the seventh pew from the back.
As she looked again upon this women with a lifetime of illness, that gave all of herself and got very little back, she began to feel the coldness of the table below her and she heard the nurse say "try not to move little one, the operation is over, but you mustn’t move." She opened her eyes to the bright lights and the room she had fallen asleep in and she awoke to all she had looked upon and she knew who she was and she knew who she wanted to be.
She knew she wouldn’t run after the football she would catch and that she wouldn’t feel the speed of the race from the driver’s seat; she knew there would be no medals or praise. She knew the women she looked upon would be her and she knew that’s why the cold sterile table had not been to her as it had to so many before her. She knew there would be suffering and sacrifice, but she also knew that with all the mansions to be constructed there would be no room for questioning or complaints on the seventh pew from the back.
She woke to realize how important that pew would be and that no football game or race would measure up to it. She understood that you never catch the football every time it’s thrown or the game would never end, races are meant to be lost or there would be more than one winner and legs only carry you so far before you have to ask for a ride.
By the time my mother was 16 years old Polio had sent her to that cold sterile table more than 30 times and has now placed her in a wheelchair. Her legs, feeble and weak, haven’t carried her far and the pain she has endured has overcome the rest of her body. She has also lived through devastation that would have emotionally crippled anyone without her propitious spirit and yet she lives each day with her strength and spirit carrying her longer and farther than a pair of legs ever could. No medals, no praise, and without need for them, she has carried her family, in there Sunday best, to the seventh pew from the back.