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!" 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 it
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
attacks, 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 words "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 zig zagged 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 with big
pockets. |