Your mother was a nice person

After my mom died, at the funeral and for several weeks after, all anyone talked about was how nice she was:
"Your mother was the nicest person in the world."
"Your mother would never hurt a fly."
"Your mother was the kindest person I knew."

As a six year old, I never knew how to respond to this. It wasn't me they were complimenting so I couldn't really say thank you. But at the same time, it felt kind of rude to not say anything, as if in doing so I were disagreeing with them. I knew they were being nice, trying to say something kind, but it also felt like they wanted a response from me and I didn't know the appropriate one.

As I got older, and attended other people's funerals, I started to see that people always said nice things about people at funerals. It felt like that was just what people did. I had also heard someone remark that when you die young, you die perfect. You are frozen in time in that perfect place and no one can ever find fault with you.

So the idea that my mom was an especially nice or kind or caring person never really sunk into my concept of her. It wasn't that I thought she was mean, I never thought that. It was more that I thought that the niceness that everyone talked about was more just what people said because she had died young, not as a description unique to her.

Last weekend, as I was delivering frozen scones to a friend, it occurred to me that maybe I was a nice person too. See, prior to that weekend, I had made a batch of chocolate chip scones and frozen them. I had done this on purpose. This friend of mine lives in a house with a brand new baby. I remember when my sister had a brand new baby. I remember how exhausted we were, how we could barely feed ourselves, and how grateful I was when someone showed up once, with premade sandwiches, that we could just eat and not have to assemble or anything- just eat and not be hungry anymore.

And I pictured my friend, in her house, with the new baby and the mom and how they might be feeling overwhelmed and hungry too. But then I pictured them, sitting in their kitchen, early in the morning, eating fresh baked chocolate chip scones, and I thought that would be a really nice thing for them. So I had made the dough, and frozen it, with the intent of giving it to them so that they could thaw it overnight, turn on the oven some morning, and actually have that experience of fresh baked warm chocolate chip scones. It seemed like a really nice thing to be able to give them- warm, melty, someone-baked-for-me-and-I-can-just-enjoy-it goodness. So that's what I did, I baked for them.

Earlier that same day, I had delivered some leftover treats to two other friends. They were home made peanut butter cups. I brought them to them because one of them absolutely loved peanut butter chocolate and the other was grateful for whatever I brought her. But I had originally made the peanut butter cups for another friend who, when I asked what they wanted for their birthday, had said that they really like home made peanut butter cups.
Now, I've always wondered a bit about my relationship between baking and delivering- what's my intent in giving all these things to people? But on this weekend, as I noticed my deliveries,  I started to notice that what I was doing was thinking, about my friends, and doing things, that I thought would make them happy.

And I wondered if my mom did this too. I wondered if my mom thought about her friends, if she did nice things for them, if she paid attention to what her friends liked, and then did things, kind of without them knowing, and then delivered them, because that's just who she was. Maybe those things they said at the funeral-your mother was the most thoughtful person I knew, your mother was so kind, your mother was the nicest person ever- maybe that's who she really was. Maybe they weren't just saying that because it was her funeral. Maybe she didn't die young and perfect. Maybe this is who she was and maybe, maybe I'm like her in this way too.