Читать книгу It’s Not About the Pie - Nicki Corinne White - Страница 36

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My early years were spent growing up on a horse

ranch in Western Washington. My momma—we

called her “Moma”—used to joke our home was

just a converted chicken coop. Whether that was

factually true or not, I can’t say, but I do know Moma

always said so. She had always been a city girl before

marrying my dad, and it’s likely our somewhat

primitive homestead was not her favorite. It was long,

with no windows on the north side, and the rustic

agrarian look was not her idea of how a house should

look. Moma embraced it enough to live in and rear

her children in it, but she would not allow us to have friends over. If friends did

invite themselves over, she made them sit on a hard rock seat connected to the

fireplace, thus giving them an incentive not to make an evening of it.

Later, in the last thirty years of her life, God transformed Moma, and she had

people visit quite often; they would sit in front of her rocker and share their

burdens, and she would pray and minister to them. Moma’s heart of hospitality

applied to family, too. Our grandparents lived next door to us on the farm. After

my Grandma died, Moma would have Grandpa come to dinner at our house, and

Moma was always faithful in her care of him.

Holidays can be very lonely times for shut-ins or those “parked” in nursing homes

by their families who are “too busy to visit right now.” Moma would always invite

someone from one of the local nursing homes to come to Thanksgiving dinner.