We will not be in the balcony at Church this Sunday, Mother’s Day. We will be traveling, but not to see Mom. Betsy’s mother died a few months ago and my mother died in 1994. There will be no children or grandchildren to visit us this Mother’s Day as they live too far away for a week-end trip. So we have decided to travel three and a half hours to meet with my siblings and nephews and nieces for an afternoon of homemade ice cream.
No ice cream parlor can provide the memories of a lazy summer afternoon when the kids would take turns turning the ice cream churn. It was always interesting how the circle of friends and family grew as the turning of the churn became harder! Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the ice cream would be spooned out and we would dig into the soupy delight. I expect that will be what this Sunday’s ice cream reunion will be like. Yes, we can buy it cheaper and some say there are varieties that taste better than homemade. But none of those store-bought novelties can compare with a group of loved ones who gather around an old ice cream freezer as it churns its way to frozen delight
Our mothers will not be present to enjoy the ice cream with us, but somehow their presence will be palpable as we watch the children scurry about, anxious to be first in line for homemade ice cream. In the ritual of homemade ice cream, we will know the communion of saints long gone, but not forgotten, and we will affirm the goodness of love still present.
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