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 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 in 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 attaches, 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 works "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 zigzagged 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 to wear to art class.
Patricia Lorenz patricialorenz@juno.com
Patricia Lorenz is a nationally-known art-of-living writer and speaker, author
of five books, top contributor to the 'Chicken Soup for the Soul' books with
stories in 22 of them, author of over 400 published articles and stories and an
award-winning columnist. Please visit her website at
www.PatriciaLorenz.com
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