I haven’t written that much about my mom. It’s time I did.

She grew up on a farm, one of 13 children. She was hard-working and faithful. And during the last years of my dad’s life, when he had Alzheimer’s, she was his caregiver.

After she was gone and we were going through our childhood home, we kept finding notes. With dates. Always with dates.

This wasn’t exactly a surprise. Mom had been leaving us notes for years.

Once she mailed me part of a tooth that one of my sons had lost at her house. She tucked it into a package along with a sock someone had left behind. (The socks are a whole other story.)

There were little Post-it notes with Bible verses around the house. Notes explaining where things belonged. Notes taped inside cabinets. Notes about things she thought someone might need to know someday.

And she labeled things. So many things.

Much of her jewelry came with its own little history: where she got it, who gave it to her, what year it was from. If she wanted a piece to eventually go to someone in particular, their name was on it.

My dad created a time capsule for us, but the one thing he forgot to do was have my mom write the notes.

So now, 50 years later, we’re looking at some of the things he saved and wondering, Why did Dad put this in here?

With Mom, there’s very little wondering.

She left nothing to chance. She wrote it down.