“David! What are you doing here?”
My ninety-five-year-old mother was shocked when I appeared unexpectedly at her door.
I had driven from Altus, Oklahoma to Lubbock, Texas to visit her but had deliberately not told her I was coming.
Walking down the hall of the long-term care facility where she is a resident, I called her.
“I sure wish I could visit you, Mom,” I said.
“I know, I know,” she sighed.
“If I were there, I’d take you out to Red Lobster, your favorite place to eat,” I went on, enjoying the tease, anticipating the surprise.
“I know, I know,” her voice fell.
I couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Well, I’d better not talk about it, since I can’t be there,” I told her.
At that moment, while still on the phone with her, I knocked on her door.
It took her a few moments to figure out how I was on the phone, far away in Kentucky, while being at her door, in Lubbock, Texas, at one and the same time.
“Look,” she said, holding up her phone for me to see, “I was just talking to you.”
She recovered nicely, and after catching up on some news, we went to eat, where she did in fact, eat every bite of the lobster I ordered for her.
I thought of another time I had surprised her. Many years ago, when I was all of three and half feet tall and still able to sit on the arm rest in between passengers in the front seat of our family car, I had left our house unannounced to go play at a friend’s home. Knowing the dire consequences of leaving without asking permission, I had left Mom a note—one similar to hers when on occasion she have to be gone before I arrived home from elementary school.
“I’ll be back shortly,” I wrote, mimicking her language, “eat the snack of pears I left for you, watch ‘Leave it to Beaver,’ and I’ll be home soon.”
She had gotten angry with me, she later admitted, for she supposed I had left the house without Mom or Dad knowing my whereabouts. But that aggravation dissipated when she read my note and saw the snack I’d left for her.
Back in Lubbock, later that night, just as I was about to crawl in bed, I thought I’d better check on Mom one more time. As I opened my door, there she stood. For a split second, it startled me.
“Mom, what are you doing here?” I said, unable to hide my agitation with her walking across the room without the aid of her walker.
“I just wanted to thank you for driving all this way to visit me and surprise me. I’ll never forget it.”
Her surprising me, or me surprising her— which was the real surprise?
Sometimes surprises come with gentle little reminders. A mom’s love for her son and a son’s love for his mom is still there, ever present—even when distanced by miles and separated by years.
The grandest surprise is in the love the surprise itself brings with it.
Which should come as no surprise at all.