Inspiring Moment: Happy Mother’s Day!

Written by Braiden Rex-Johnson


Five More Minutes With Mother

Written by Anonymous on September 6, 2012

If I had five more minutes with my mom, I would tell her how sorry I was every time I rushed her off the phone.

I would tell her how sorry I was that I didn’t help her with my dad.

I would tell her how much I was going to miss her, that she meant so much to me, that she taught me everything, that my life would not be the same without her in it everyday.

And I would touch her. I would hold her hand. I would touch her cheeks with mine. I miss that so much.

I would brush her hair because I know how much she loved that.

And I would thank her for being my mom–mine–who loved me more than anyone in this world.

If I had five more minutes with my mom, I would beg her for five more. And five more after that. Because it’s never enough.

There is never enough time to spend with your mom.




More stories from: Featured Story,With My Mom

I Would Just Sit With You

Written by Keith O'Brien on January 19, 2012

Mary Lou O'Brien

I think I would just sit with you, Mom, not needing to do anything or be anywhere.

I think I would, at least for one of my five minutes, just hold your hands and stare into your eyes.

So I would make absolutely certain that I would remember that look only you could give me…forever.

If I had just five more minutes…

I would take the next one to thank you for everything,

For all the times you made my lunch, my dinner, my bed, and my day.

For encouraging me when I needed it, for scolding me when I deserved it.

If I had just five more minutes…

I would take the next one to say I am sorry.

For putting you through hell when I was a teenager.

For all the nights I kept you worrying, praying, and hoping that I was safe.

If I had just five more minutes…

I would take the next one to tell you all about your grandchildren.

These are three young souls that you would have really loved.

And even though you never met, they will forever know you because they know us.

If I had just five more minutes…

I would take my last one to let you know that Dad is okay.

It wasn’t easy for him but he has come through as you knew he would.

With a smile on his face, a glass of wine in his hand, and love in his heart.

My time is up but I know I can find you whenever I choose.

You are right there when I need you.

I can feel you always.

There is rarely a day that I don’t think of you, miss you, or want to tell you something.

When something cool happens, I still pick up the phone to call you.

What I wouldn’t give for just five more minutes.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.

I love you.

Note: I found this beautifully written tribute on Keith O’Brien’s Web site, and he most graciously allowed me to repost it on Five More Minutes With.

Here are other ways to contact Keith. . .who told me in subsequent e-mail correspondence that, “I’ve been buying and writing out Mother’s Day cards every year since she died, and this year I just decided to make it more public.”

Lucky for us!

More stories from: Featured Story,With My Mom

My Final Moments with My Mother

Written by Braiden on November 21, 2011

Mom (right) holding my little brother, Brad; Braiden; and Granddaddy Looper, Mom’s father

My mother died from a “catastrophic event,” when her defective heart defibrillator blew up in her chest.

Despite a hurried ambulance trip to the hospital, she survived only a few hours, then was gone.

Luckily, I had talked to my mother earlier that day (we live in Seattle and she and Dad lived in Austin, Texas, at the time). We chatted about how she was feeling (not well) and I urged her to try to drink one of her favorite beverages–vanilla malt powder stirred into a mug of hot milk.

When the conversation began to wane and we were about to sign off, she said in a very chipper voice, “Love you, baby.”

After she was pronounced dead and my brother and I received the news, we both boarded red-eye flights to Texas to comfort Dad and prepare her memorial service.

Mom never wanted any “doings” after she was gone, so we knew she wouldn’t approve of anything that resembled a formal funeral. So instead, we decided instead to throw a life-celebration party, something like a sedate Irish wake, and invite Mom and Dad’s neighbors and friends.

The wake/party turned out wonderfully well with my brother and me sharing our thoughts with the small group of people who huddled in Mom and Dad’s living room.

Meanwhile, Mom’s body was at a local funeral home waiting for cremation. The funeral director asked if any of us wanted to see her one last time.

Both my brother and father declined.

Me? I wanted to see my mother and say goodbye to her one last time.

My caring and most supportive husband drove us to the funeral home. It was in a nice wooded part of town, with a residential feel, almost.

Together we walked into the dimly lit parlor.

Mom was on a gurney covered by a sheet. The funeral director pulled the stiff cloth away from her face to neck level. We could see her hands as well but that was all.

She looked surprisingly young–not a wrinkle in her face–and totally at peace. I was so happy to see her that way, especially after the horrific circumstances of her death.

I had wanted to place something in her hand before she was cremated. . .sort of a token of her life on earth that she could carry into the great beyond.

So, while still in her bedroom back at the house, I’d cast about for something meaningful. First I thought of an artificial amethyst ring she loved to wear (born in February, amethyst was her birthstone) but thought that seemed somehow too crass and materialistic.

Then, sitting right on her bedside table, where she would have seen it each and every day, I noticed a set of miniature porcelain cats that included a mother cat and four kittens. They were painted in pale blue against white, sort of like Delft ware, but in a more Asian style.

I immediately loved them.

I took one of the kitten statues, wrapped it in a tissue, and thrust it into my pocket.

Back at the funeral parlor, the funeral director asked if I would like a few minutes alone with Mom. I nodded my head and he and Spencer stepped outside.

I took her cold hand, placed the little kitty in her palm, and closed her fingers around it.

My parting words to my mother began to spill out unchecked.

I told her how much I loved her and how I was happy to be her daughter, much like the little kitty who was now cuddled in her hand. I hoped she’d have a good journey and would end up in a better place, back with all the cats we’d had during childhood, as well as all her relatives and friends who had gone before her.

I pulled the sheet back over her face, went back into the somber parlor, and fell into Spencer’s strong and waiting arms.

More stories from: Featured Story,With My Mom

A Memorial Brick for a Special Mother

Written by Braiden on June 23, 2011

Those of you who visit the Five More Minutes With Web site with any regularity know that we occasionally run holiday contests. And during the contests, we offer nice prizes to entice the best submissions.

Ever wonder what a recent prize winner, Laurie Halladay, did with the $100 she won?

Here’s the lovely brick she had inscribed to her mother. It rests at the Cancer Support Community/Florida Suncoast, a non-profit organization providing free psychological and educational services for cancer patients and their loved ones.

Laurie’s brick in honor of her late mother

Like mother, like daughter, I would say.

Thanks for your good work, Laurie. Wonderful way to commemorate your loved one!

Laurie and the brick honoring her mother



More stories from: Featured Story,With My Mom

One Huge Regret

Written by Jennifer Covello on March 22, 2011

My need for perfection kept me from sharing my award-winning baby journal and my business with my mom the last time I saw her.

I brought the journal with me and was waiting for that ‘perfect’ moment when I visited my mom in the hospital. She was being treated for lung cancer and while I knew her days were numbered, I had no idea how numbered.

I spent three days with her in the hospital arguing with myself–show her/don’t show her.

I returned home not showing her my baby journal nor telling her about my new business thinking, I’ll tell her this weekend when I come to visit again.

But that was the last time I would see or speak to my mom. She passed away only days later.

Even though I know she “knows” all about my business now, I put this on my list of HUGE regrets.

What I wouldn’t do to see her face and her reaction had she seen what I’d accomplished.

Editor’s Note: Jennifer Covello is owner/founder of Frittabello, which offers “inspired gifts for a baby’s life journey.”

More stories from: Featured Story,With My Mom