It was Saturday night, and she was attempting to do her hair — pink and black rollers somewhat flattened in the middle from years of use, bobby pins and the same silver comb. Faithful friends that are held safely in an old cigar box. For decades they’ve come out of the bathroom closet so she might be ready for church on Sunday morning. I offered my assistance, and surprisingly, she allowed me the honor.

I once was the one sitting on the floor while she sat on the couch. Lawrence Welk was the background soundtrack as she combed and parted my wet hair. Dipping the comb into the bubbly jar of Dippity-Do, she slicked the goo down each swath of hair before rolling it up in pink sponge rollers that clicked and locked my long hair in place all over my head. Sometimes simple pin curls called for bobby pin X’s to poke my scalp all night long.

Her efforts always meant that on Sunday morning, I was presentable, with curls springing over my shoulders. Though sometimes in the car, she took a hanky out of her black, patent leather purse and wiped remnants of breakfast from my face.

Those simple Saturday nights were before I knew that the world and its inhabitants could disappoint and sometimes even break our hearts. I never knew the tenacity, hard work and faith required of my parents until I had my own children.

The older I get, the more human my parents become. Their humanity passed through a fog in my mind as a child, but it has recently become clearer. They weren’t just Mom and Dad, but people.

Ties that bind generations

I’m not sure how it happened. The carefree little girl that was my mother, born on the cusp of the Great Depression, isn’t so difficult to see now. Not because she’s acting like a child. On the contrary, she’s quite capable and independent.

It’s a deeper awakening in me that has come from a more appreciated and less-taken-for-granted relationship. Maybe it’s because lines etched across the face that I’ve stared into all my life speak of the fragility that befalls each of us.

Maybe it’s because my own forehead isn’t as smooth as it once was. Life has become more precious and fleeting. With each new ache within my own body, there’s a realization of something else she’s endured.

ALL CURLED UP: Here I am, complete with curls, in my kindergarten school picture.

The momma who lovingly made me clean and presentable, seeing to it that my tomboy-self looked like a young lady, is still my mom. She gave me life, taught me immeasurable lessons. A woman who has known trial, loss, loneliness, sorrow, joy, laughter, satisfaction and hard work — her little-girl self knew what it was to have her own hair rolled into pin curls by her mother.

In between those times of her sitting down for her mom in those lean, learning years to those times with me decades later, sitting before her in a cozy living room, a lot of humanity was lived out. Maybe we aren’t so different, as we’ve lived in this fallen world that sometimes brings laughter and other times tears.

No matter where we land, on Sunday morning, I make sure my hair is as it should be, giving my best as I enter the Lord’s house — just like my momma taught me.

McClain writes from Greenwood, Ind.