"She was always the last one to eat," she told me. Jean was speaking to me in a soft, sweet drawl as we sat in front of a clinic. I had just met her. The subject of Mother's Day had come up and she started to reminisce. I couldn't help but hear in her voice the sound of all daughters everywhere: women who had over time developed a profound appreciation for their mother's love.
She continued slowly, "My brothers and my sisters never noticed but I did. I figured it out. She was waiting to feed herself until she knew everyone else at the table had enough to eat."
Her eyes glistened as she recalled those memories. I expected that tears might start to flow down her smooth black cheeks at any moment, but they never did. She kept her composure and calmly continued while I listened silently, feeling like I was observing a treasure being unwrapped before me.
"Daddy wasn't like my mother at all. He even beat her." She shook her head with sadness. Then she went on talking. "As a grownup woman with my own kids and grandkids now, I know what he really was." There wasn't any bitterness in her voice, just realism. She was simply telling the story, recounting the facts of life from her childhood as if she had just lived them yesterday.
She said, "Daddy was what I call a 'street whore.'" She was choosing her words deliberately, like she was rehearsing a story she had told many times to different people. She waited to see my reaction then resumed, saying, "He gave us children lots of half-sisters and half-brothers but he didn't love us kids like my mother did. He only loved himself." She paused.
Her slow cadence, her southern dialect, was mesmerizing. I wished I had a recorder to save her voice, imagining it was a story being aired on NPR radio.
"My mother taught me about God, you know," smiling to herself as she added more remembrances. "She never complained but she always put us first. My big brother is in the Army Reserves, you know," she said proudly, her face beaming. "He just graduated with an RN degree. I know how hard it was because I was an LPN. He worked so hard finishing school while taking care his four children."
She finished, smiling. "We owe who we are to what our mother taught us."
After she departed, I sat a moment longer. Here was a white man hearing the testimony of a black woman. I was seeing clearly that our shared humanity had much in common. She was a believer in Jesus. So was I, thinking, "This makes her my sister!"
She had endured tough times but survived and became a better person. Her mother's love for her had been an anchor for her soul despite the neglect of her father and his ways that hurt his family. Me too. I had thrived despite a father whose alcoholism hurt us kids finally destroyed his mind. Strangely, my Heavenly Father let me first feel His love for me through my mother's arms. Way to go God! Mom went to be with the Lord on Mother's Day in 1980. Now my wife has mothered two terrific children, now adults with families living in NW Arkansas. They've given us six brilliant grandchildren!
Mothers, never discount the power of your unconditional love; or your patient service even when weary; or your prayers voiced privately to God. Your children benefit now from your love. One day they will bless you for that love.
RON WOOD IS A MINISTER AND WRITER. HE AND HIS WIFE LIVE IN FAYETTEVILLE WITH THEIR RETIRED JACK RUSSELL TERRIER. RON WORKS FOR EXPRESS MEDICAL TRANSPORTERS LOCATED IN PRAIRIE GROVE. WRITE TO HIM AT [email protected].
Editorial on 05/13/2015