Pits and Grit

As much as you love your mother — and she loves you — coming together in tight quarters requires patience and understanding. Despite the stress, if you look for it, you may discover a precious lesson.

One night, I learned mine was about grit and resilience.

The phone rang after midnight. My dad had suffered a major heart attack.

As one of five daughters and a doctor, I traveled to meet Mom at a shabby on-site hospital hotel. In her seventies with multiple medical problems of her own, walking long distances was challenging for her. Three times a day, I pushed her in a wobbly wheelchair to visit Dad, back and forth through the dimly lit half-mile underground tunnel.

After a week of that routine, with Dad stable but still recovering, Mom decided it was time for us to check on the family farm where my parents still lived.

We drove an hour and a half and arrived late afternoon as the sun was setting, casting long shadows over the shaggy lawn. Branches from four ancient peach trees drooped their spindly arms toward the ground, laden with velvety, ripened fruit.

I looked forward to visiting my childhood home. Emotionally and physically exhausted, I couldn’t wait to collapse on my old pink checkered gingham bed, still adorned with stuffed animals and dusty dolls.

That was not to be.

Nope. Because there were peaches.

“Waste not, want not!” Mom said as she tied a faded apron around her waist.

“It’s late, Mom, can we do this tomorrow?” I asked. (Actually, I whined with great hope in my voice.)

“No, I want to get back to your father first thing tomorrow morning, so we need to pick these peaches now. I’ll get started. Go get the ladder from the shed.”

Suddenly I turned into a petulant teenager. With an audibly loud and very long sigh, I followed orders, just like the old days.

Pinkie and my other well-worn toy friends would have to wait.

We proceeded to pull all the ripe fruit off the branches. Up and down the rickety ladder multiple times. I lost count of the baskets we filled.

Finally, we were done.

We were not.

In the kitchen, we washed, peeled, and pitted bushels of the soft pink fruit. Gleaming glass jars emerged from the steaming water bath. Sweat trickled down our noses and backs. Mom worked through aching feet, sore shoulders, water-soaked hands, and swollen knuckles to finish all those peaches.

She never complained. She kept me laughing with stories of the townspeople, her latest projects, collecting rocks while traveling with Dad (she had become an amateur lapidarian), stories of her youth and of mine.

Sleepy birds had flown back to their nests hours ago. Fireflies winked, crickets sang, and cicadas rubbed their wings, offering a light and sound show while we labored at the large farmhouse sink.

By 2 a.m., totally spent, we sank down at the old plywood kitchen table and shared a steaming cup of coffee.

Mom smiled. Mission accomplished. I looked at her in admiration. I could barely move, even after popping what felt like half a bottle of aspirin.

It is a great memory. And a lifeline.

When I face tough challenges with unknown outcomes, I’d like nothing more than to climb into my comforter-laden bed and cocoon. And I remember my mom’s toughness.

That night taught me something I’d need many times over — during grueling years of medical training, when facing my own health scares, when breaking into spaces where I wasn’t initially welcomed. The lesson was always the same: when you want to quit, when your body aches, when the task feels impossible — you keep going. You find the rhythm in the work. You finish what you started.

Mom taught me about grit in a lesson served as juicy, ripe peaches.

For a lifeline on hope, check out Holding onto Hope

Feeling low on inspiration, find some at After the Rain