If you have had the pleasure of meeting
my mother, you'd know this to be true... Linda Kay Elliott is a
saint. She has experienced enough to make any strong man sink to his
knees. Her father was shot in a liquor store robbery...he had
alcohol in his blood and to this day, she still wonders if the liquor
encouraged him to fight back. Her mother developed Parkinson's
disease a few short years later. She lived with us while I was in
high school...I can only imagine how stressful that was to watch her
degenerate...she was so fragile. She died years later in the
hospital from pneumonia experimenting countless medicines in an
effort to reverse the disease. More recently, her younger sister
Carol, after speaking with her best friend on the phone, collapsed
from a heart attack and died several days later. During each loss, my
mother remained collected. Perhaps it was her training as a Nurse
that created either an award-winning Poker face or the stark reality
that life is fleeting.
Linda has never smoked. I doubt she's
ever done any sort of drugs...not that she'd talk about that kind of
thing. The only time I've seen her consume alcohol was when I bought
her a strawberry daiquiri on a cruise we enjoyed together a few years
ago. She didn't seem to enjoy it...maybe it's because of the history
with her father. I have never heard a foul word spill from her
mouth. In fact, I've never seen her angry. A few months ago,
curious about her answer, I asked her what made her angry. What
would actually stir her to punch someone in the face. She looked
thoughtful and responded, “Nothing ultimately matters that much”.
Perhaps it was the Cancer...it seems to give you a different filter.
It makes seemingly important things small and small things important.
The single time I heard her raise her voice was when her father was
shot and it was being highlighted briefly on the news. Bryan, Jody,
and I must have been too loud nearby and she stomped out of the room
mad that she missed the segment. That's it. She could also instantly
transform into Nurse in emergencies. Cole almost lost his adult
front tooth while we were visiting a few years ago. While I was face
planted on the cool linoleum, gasping for air, she calmly applied
pressure while blood pulsed from his mouth. I also just learned that
when my Aunt Gail had a hysterectomy, my mom surprised her in the
hospital room and slept in the chair all night to watch over her.
Then you have her battle with Cancer, fought like a true champion,
she has dealt with this beast in some shape or form for over 15
years.
She is the cornerstone of the Elliott
family. She took my grandmother Elliott to the doctors,
hair-dressers and the bank as often as needed. She has raised
strong grandchildren long after her youngest was grown. She
delivered thousands of babies at the hospital and my local friends
even sought her out when they were pregnant. She single-handedly
supported the family income and did her best to keep current. If she
had two pennies remaining, she'd give you both. She visits my great
Aunt Bootsie several times a month...Bootsie's hugs and gardens are
healing. She loves to scrapbook, dabbled in genealogy, is an avid
reader, loves country music, is a die-hard martyr, always wanted to
either foster children or do mission work abroad. She is poised,
caring, soft-spoken, gentle and even-tempered. I have never, ever,
ever, heard her ever complain. When the Cancer came and then returned, she
promptly took the suggested steps. She sweetly endured long hours
hooked to toxins via the port in her chest. Her best friend, Karen and other family members would call me to get updates on her progress because Mom wouldn't return phone calls...she didn't want to trouble them or make them worry. When her income dropped
because she could no longer work, she stayed calm. She seems to have
this never-ending reserve of love, patience, kindness, and joy that
most people draw short. I call it a God-thing. She is a Christian,
always making sure we went to Sunday school and vacation bible
school. I grew up reading the poem Footprints...we've always had it
framed in our house. It tells of how a man goes to heaven and God
shows him the flow of his life as represented by footprints in the
sand. When times were good, there were two sets of footprints in the
sand. But when times were hard, there were only one. The man
questioned God as to why he left him alone in times of trouble to
which God responds...my child, that was when I carried you. If,
instead of that seemingly whiney man, the story was written from my Mom's
perspective, it would most often reflect single sets of footprints in the
sand. And when God says, 'Well done, my good and faithful servant',
she'll quietly giggle her sweet little laugh and humbly respond “my pleasure”.
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