There are our mothers. But when God sends you one more, the one you want and kind of need, I call that person an angel.

I’m not certain of many things. My grandfather said, “The more I learn, the more I realize just how little I really know." But I am certain of two things. Angels walk the planet and appear not just at Christmas.

Mine came in the body and soul of Ida.

Ida Edwards was born in 1905 in Bunkie, La., the oldest of 14 children. She married Percy Gilmore in 1925 and during the Great Depression in 1933, they gathered their children and all their belongings and moved to Texas. Ida told me, “We left cuz we worked for a man who took all our labor. We had nothin’ to grow up on.”

Ida was working as a housekeeper when my bold red-headed great aunt got up from the bridge table, entered her friend’s kitchen and asked Ida, who was making lunch, if she wanted another job. Not working for “me,” she said to Ida, for my “sister." A few days later, Ida arrived at my grandparents' house, employed as their housekeeper. She became more than that, however. From that day on, through three generations, she was the heart of our household.

Up in our heads, we measure things in a certain way, but deep down I think we all know the true measuring stick really rules from the heart. As a child, it was the soft bosom of Ida I remember. As I grew to an adult, it was the stuff underneath I learned to love and value most.

After helping raise my mother, an only child, Ida helped Mother raising the four of us – each a little more than one year apart. Mama said that from 2 to 6 p.m. everyday, “All we did was fold cotton diapers.”

Understandably, time wasn’t plentiful, but when it came to brushing long hair, especially tangled, Mother had even less patience. I played with dogs, not dolls, and my older brothers as much as they’d permit. Keeping my hair in braids was wise, but from my end, the process wasn’t always pain-free.

When Mother brushed my hair, she’d start from the scalp and pull downward in one continuous stroke. If my eyes weren’t watering, I was crying. But when Ida took the brush, she took time. Carefully, she’d separate my hair into sections, gather each bunch into her strong gentle hands and work from the ends up as gently as if she was playing a harp. This may sound silly, but in this one act, Ida was teaching patience, respect and consideration. Important stuff, especially to a young person.

Sometimes when it was time for Ida to go home, I’d go with her. We’d ride the bus to Beatrice Street where she and Percy lived, raising seven children of their own. They also had a chicken coop, a vegetable garden and the greenest grass I ever saw. For a kid, hog heaven. Ida’s youngest child still cares for the place and keeps it up. It was the best feeling in the world when after Ida’s funeral, he introduced me to someone saying, “This is my sister.”

Ida had many insightful sayings, but one in particular still strikes me as gold. I’d come home from high school, complaining about something or someone, and Ida would say, “You know it’s nice to be nice." I didn’t fully appreciate her meaning then, but I realize now how wonderfully rich it is. It was Ida’s way of reciting the golden rule.

Years later, she was still practicing this by helping care for my mother after one of her chemo treatments. Ida was in the kitchen when I returned mother’s tray with a plate of food untouched. Ida looked at it and said, “Here, let me take it." I followed her back to the bedroom with the sense that I was about to see magic performed. And I was. Ida hardly said a thing. She just sat silently on the sofa and watched Mother eat, just as she’d done at the dinner table every evening when Mother was a child.

I don’t think it coincidental that Mother died on Ida’s birthday. Rather strange beauty. Ida lived another 23 years – long enough to celebrate her 100th birthday. She died on the Fourth of July and as angels should, in her sleep, in the bosom of home.

We all love differently, but Ida’s love was sent, received and, I’d like to think, returned many times. Someone said, “Home’s not necessarily where you live, it’s where you’re most understood."

Maybe that’s why I liked going home with Ida. Home was wherever Ida was.