Things That Matter

I wrote this preface for the biography of my mom, Leah White. I titled her book, "Things That Matter," quoting her from a journal entry she wrote.

1981 — Loreen in Lewiston, UT

Pictures, pictures, pictures—I love them! They keep memories safe for us, give details that we would otherwise never remember, tell stories of someone’s life.

I look for her in hundreds, thousands of pictures so I can piece together her history. I see her as a child, a teenager, a bride, and a young mother. Gradually, the age gap between us seems to shrink: she lived a life, just like me! I’m touched with longing when I see her with her “daddy,” a man I never met. I laugh when I get to the photo of her warty green face and witch’s hat on Halloween. When I see her marrying my dad, I feel a little sad because I know it didn’t last—but then gratitude takes over as I see Lynn, and think of how happy they were together. I smile at the image of her as an adult, laughing with her mother and sister (I wish I could hear the joke!). Joy and sadness, play and work, love and loss and love again, growth through trial, courage and insecurity—I find all of this and more in her pictures.

I see myself on my eleventh birthday—happy, opening my presents. It’s cold outside (it’s November in northern Utah, after all), but I feel warm, secure, treasured. Looking back at that moment, I now understand that this is the year before the divorce. She is 41 years old. She’s a full-time college student with church responsibilities and two part-time jobs, but still somehow makes time to prepare a special celebration for me.

Then I look deeper into the picture. I see the wrapped gifts and the new clothes I’ve already opened. I see the table the nine of us gathered around for so many years, eating and visiting, playing games, doing crafts and projects, enjoying each other.

But where is she? Now I must look beyond the edges of the photo, because she is holding the camera. She is the one who purchased, prepared, and served the food I requested for my special day (tacos, of course!); the one who chose and wrapped the gifts that delighted me; the one who made and frosted the cake and placed the 11 candles I blew out; the one who gathered the family to help me feel special and loved. I can’t see her in the photo, but the memory is what it is because of her.

And so it is with my life. I can’t see her anymore, but she is still here, and much of who I am is because of her. I love you, Mom! I wish I could be by your side as you read this book we wrote for you—another “picture” of your life.