The Yellow Shirt

[Kenny]

A friend sent this:

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 be came 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.

Peace,
Cyberian