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In Memory of Her

Mother’s Day is a good time to remember and give thanks for my mum.

She passed away on 21st April 2007 after diminishing over a period of eight months from brain cancer.

She wasn’t perfect of course. None are. But she has been there for me, busy or distracted as she was at certain seasons. Some of my best years with her were when she stayed with us and helped to raise my two girls.

Her best gift was of course in cooking. And good cooking meant a lot of warm hospitality. Alpha exploded at that time and I can recall the difference her cooking made to the experience of the Course. Her cooking also brought our family and in laws together. Every Sunday evening, we look forward to her dinners.

My Mum was also a gracious person who was kind and open to everyone she meets, whether rich or poor. She was a people gatherer and through that, she reached some of her friends for Christ.

In the earlier years, she worked as a cook in restaurants and canteens. It is hard work and we have to wake up very early to do marketing. I will be woken up at 5 am to accompany her to the market. There was a lot of heavy carrying back and forth to the car. She will reward me with a piece of Char Siew sliced of the hook-up meat by the seller. I was indeed easily pleased. It was “child labour”, some may say in modern times. But I think something is lost for our children if we spare them from some hard work.

Mothers are a precious gifts to life. They are irreplaceable. Treasure yours. Don’t just love them from your heart. Show it.

I am continuing her legacy in my cooking. I pray I will also make her proud by the way I live my life.

I wrote a poem about her motherly love when I was preparing to publish the cookbook written in memory of her. I am sure this poem is also true of yours. If it is not in preparing meals, yours have worked hard and sacrificially in other areas.

My Mother

“She gets up while it is still night; she provides food for her family...” ~ Proverbs 31:15

Rising before the sun Walking the markets Wetting her feet Seeking out the fresh Plucking, choosing, haggling The bagged produce Straining at her fingers She made her way home The taps trickled The leaves rinsed The lesong rhythmed The knife chopped The pot boiled Ever so softly For her children were still In their rooms, in their dreams The air came to life Wafting smells Of pounded herbs Of tossed sauces Her children stirred Scented dreams Come true

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