I Loved You Best

By Callie Grant

Running this post on Mother’s Day has become a tradition for us. We hope you enjoy it, too. Happy Mother’s Day all you mothers who love so much!

The scene could have been from a classic novel: A mother’s letter found after her death, revealing the deep secrets of her heart.

Betty Blanchard Childers was classic all right—a classic loving mom in every way.

Betty also holds a special place as “Aunt Betty” for us in the Graham Blanchard family. When her older sister, Lessie Blanchard Grant died suddenly, leaving two very young sons, Aunt Betty and her husband, “Uncle Howard,” helped raise them, and later nurtured their children, too—acting as any loving, doting grandparents would. Always full of love and ready to “make memories,” Betty had the quickest smile, which often indicated she had something fun up her sleeve. We all loved Betty and miss her.

As her daughter Linda was cleaning out her parent’s home to prepare it for sale, she found the following letter that Betty certainly intended to be found after she was home with the Lord. Betty was 85 years old when she passed away in 2009. She and Howard had been married for 66 years.

Enjoy the insights and humor that Betty left behind in these words below, made all the more poignant by Betty and Howard’s loss of their oldest, Sandra, when she was just a young woman. You might see glimpses of your family in Betty’s words.

Dear Firstborn, Sandra,

I always loved you best because you were our first miracle. You were the genesis of a marriage, the fulfillment of young love, the promise of our infinity.

You sustained us through the hamburger years. The first apartment furnished in “early poverty,” our first mode of transportation the old Chevrolet coupe, the 12-inch television console and anything else new we paid on for months and months.

You were new—and had unused grandparents—and more clothes than a Barbie doll. You were the “original model” for unsure parents trying to do all the right things and worked the bugs out. You got the strained lamb, open pins, three-hour naps and starched and pressed dresses.

You were the beginning.

To our Middle Child, Linda,

I’ve always loved you best because like your mother, you drew a dumb spot in the family, and it made you stronger for it.

You cried less (but when you cried everybody for blocks around knew it), had more patience (like Amy who sat for hours with her thumb caught), wore new clothes but sometimes hand-me-downs and never—but never— did anything “first,” but it only made you more special.

You are the one we relaxed with and realized a dog could kiss you and you wouldn’t get sick. You could cross a street by yourself long before you were old enough to get married, and the world wouldn’t come to an end if you went to bed with dirty feet.

You were the child of our busy, ambitious years. Without you, we would never have survived the job changes, the houses we really couldn’t afford, and the daily routine that is marriage. You were the superstar “Tallulah Bankhead” of the family who always kept everything interesting and everyone guessing.

You were the continuance.

To Hob, the Baby,

I’ve always loved you best because endings are sad, and I knew you were to be my very last one. You readily accepted all the milk-stained bibs and the attention you got because you were a boy. Being dressed up in doll clothes and pushed in a buggy, picked on and teased by your sisters, cracked bats, lost balls—a barren baby book with things stuffed in between the pages.

You are the one we hold onto so tightly. For you see, you are the link with a past that gives a reason for tomorrow. You darken our hair, quicken our steps, square our shoulders, restore our vision, and give us humor that security, maturity, and endurance can’t give us.

When your hairline takes on the shape of Lake Erie or the Gulf of Mexico and your children tower over you, you will still be “the Baby.”

You were the culmination.

Betty’s letter reflects the kind of love God has for each of us, loving each of us “best,” in a personal way, with an intimate message written on our wanting hearts, speaking to the one-of-a-kind imprint of our souls.

Thank you, Betty, for all those memories. And thank you, Linda and Hob, for sharing your mother with us in this way.