The movie theatre dimmed as we settled into our cushy seats, popcorn and contraband snacks smuggled from the Dollar Tree in our laps. My mom, my brother and I leaned back as the Regal Cinemas reel appeared on the screen.
It was a new introductory clip, one that took the audience on a roller coaster ride atop film reel tracks past popping corn and refreshing fountain drinks, all meant to entice you to take the next twenty minutes of previews to visit the concession stand before your movie started.
As the roller coaster on the screen started to go down the first hill, my twelve-year-old self watched in startled, mortified horror as my mother, the forty-something grown woman between me and my brother, suddenly tossed her arms in the air with a wild screech and began to "ride" the coaster in her theatre seat, leaning left and right and letting out "woo-hoos!" at each turn, as though our Saturday outing had just shifted to a Six Flags day trip, laughing her head off the entire time, tears starting to come out of her eyes at her own prank, the other handful of people in the movie theatre turning their heads and wondering what was going on.
I remember how wide mine and my brother's eyes got as we both watched, open-mouthed and oddly impressed at her courage to do such a thing in public, and after a few moments of stunned, mortified silence we all burst into laughter as the fauxller coaster pulled into the station and the previews began, continuing to giggle all the way through the movie at her utter ridiculousness.
I'm not sure what movie we saw that day, but it doesn't matter. I'll never forget the sheer hilarity of the moment, and if I had to pick a memory to summarize who Cindy Hastings is, that'd be it. Sometimes I call her Cindisita, sometimes I call her Squeaky, and my friends call her Mrs. Cindy, but the woman who once road a roller coaster in a movie theatre is and will forever be, simply, my mom.
The World Race is teaching me so many things, but one thing that stands out is how thankful it has made me for my family. I had it made growing up, and I owe much of that to Mom.
My childhood is enveloped with the tantalizing smell of her homemade chocolate chip cookies, perfectly gooey every time; the ring of her sweet voice wafting down the hallway as we got ready for church every Sunday, the same voice that empowered me to have and develop my own; the echo of her laughter as she woke us up on Saturday mornings squirting our sleeping faces with tiny water pistols through our cracked bedroom doors "because she wanted to play with us;" and the familiar image of her ear-to-ear smile as she would do her workout videos and convert our living room into a fitness center, dancing everything from salsa to line dancing to tap dancing to ballet in between the couches, moving her teeny body around and working up a sweat that "makes you feel good," laughing and loving it the whole time.
My mom taught me that God has a fun side, and he's not afraid to show it.
She's not just fun, though. My childhood is equally full of memories of a more serious side of Mom.
On the Saturdays we were allowed to sleep without being woken up with water guns, whenever I did wake up I always knew I'd find her in her spot at the kitchen table, small space heater on her feet, coffee in hand, dog in lap, comfy robe on and Bible open, studying away with her devotional guides, praying for her family and spending time with the God she loves so much. Her Bible is the kind whose leather is now soft to the touch, worn after years of use, edges torn and pages overrun with years of thoughts and prayers, highlights and holes. It's a saint's Bible. Her dedication to the Lord and to fervent prayer for her three children are no doubt what have kept us within God's saving reach when we wandered through shaky seasons of our lives.
My mom taught me that God is always faithful, always true, always trustworthy and always listening to our prayers.
My childhood is also filled with Mom's voice.
She's is the one who taught me the importance of praise from the moment I was born, singing songs about Jesus to me while she rocked me to sleep, putting me in piano lessons as soon as I had substantial dexterity, teaching me to listen for harmonies in the car to Sandi Patty and Amy Grant, signing me up for church choir and signing me up to sing during the offertory (many times to my surprise) at church, always beaming with pride every time I opened my mouth. Mom never stops singing (neither does Dad – our house is loud), and she joyfully invited me to join in with her lifelong song of worship as soon as I was born, delighting in our many living room concerts and front seat duets in the car. She's the one who showed me my true musical passion, and it was her joy to share hers with me.
My mom taught me that even when you don't know the right words or don't know the full song, God is always worthy of our highest praise – in the church choir, in the kitchen, in the car and everywhere else, all the time.
My childhood is full of her sayings and songs encouraging us to follow God and obey our parents, full of her sometimes not-so-gentle reminders that we should read our Bibles and pray "because she's the mama," because we needed it and because, well, she said so.
When I was younger I often thought Mom was kind of a Bible Nazi and was frustrated by her insistence that I needed Jesus so badly, annoyed that I always had to go to church and that we couldn't watch MTV and that many of the gifts I got were from Lifeway. I didn't understand why she harped so much on the importance of reading my Bible and praying, but what I didn't see was that Mom knew and believed the truth behind the proverb, "Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will not stray from it," and stuck to it even when we didn't like it, knowing that God makes good on his promises and that if she instilled in us the importance of knowing and loving him, we'd eventually make it back to him one way or another. (She was right. We did.)
My mom showed me that while the world has fun things to offer, God is the only thing worth pursuing full time. She taught me that God never gives up on us and so never gave up on me. She proved to me that when love makes commitments, it never goes back on them and that true love sticks with you through thick and thin, easy and hard, good and bad. And it even likes you at the end of it all.
There are so many things I learned from Mom. It would take a year's worth of blogs to recount them all. This blog doesn't even touch how to love Auburn football, how to make delicious meals out of a seemingly empty pantry, how to eat healthily and how to eat horrifically, the importance of laughter in every situation, how to make a house a home, how to cook for your family six nights a week for 18 years, how to be a phenomenal, fun wife or how homemade fudge is an appropriate fix to any bad situation.
Most importantly, though, Mom is the one that taught me to love the Lord.
She is a woman of unshakable faith, an intercessor, a fierce lover, a relentless fighter and a 5'2", 110-pound ball of uncontainable, infectious joy. I would not and could not be where I am today without her love and example, without her strength holding the family together in good times and bad, without her role as my biggest fan and loudest cheerleader through everything I've ever done. I hope to be half the lover of a mother she is one day to my own family. "She is clothed with strength and dignity," and I'm so, so proud to call her mine.
Well, usually… unless we're in a movie theatre. Then I might pretend she's someone else's.
I love you, Mom.
m
my family with a cardboard cutout of my face this weekend at my brother's seminary graduation
