(Not intended for young readers.)
Today is The Day. My little caboose, Kimberly, is the same age to-the-very-day today as the age I was when my mother passed into glory to meet the Lord and spend eternity with Him. How thankful I am that my mother is in the presence of God, and how many times I have been in wonder over the bliss she has had since leaving her earthly body.
Within the hands of providential destiny, my mother was on the way to meet my father for lunch on a cold winter day in March with my baby sister in the front seat of the car when a truck crossed the median strip of the most dangerous highway in Pennsylvania. My mother was hit directly on the driver’s side and my little sister rolled to the floor where a passenger’s feet would have been. There were no seat belts in cars at that time, and it would not have mattered if there had been anyway. A nurse was following a few cars back and when several other cars stopped she did too. The onlookers recognized that nothing could be done for my mama and so they withdrew from the scene. That’s when they heard a baby cry. A frantic return to the car and a scrambling to pull damaged metal apart … they found a perfectly fine baby tucked away in a little Noah’s ark cove. The rest of the car was demolished. I’ve seen photos of the car. Demolished.
My mother was transported to the hospital where she had birthed me five years earlier. She was diagnosed as brain dead and years later I was told that if she had lived she would have remained in a vegetative state in a nursing home, spare a miracle. She died ten days later and the given cause for death was pnemonia. Having looked into medical protocol for that time, I have sometimes suspected if the cause of death was hospital induced euthanasia in its early form. I do not fret about this. She was in her Father’s hands and He had planned her every breath. My Heavenly Father’s plan was that my daddy would walk heavy steps upstairs to my bedroom on a Sunday morning and sit on my bed and say that Mommy had gone to live with Jesus.
I, at the time, was in first grade at school. I had not gone to kindergarten, neither had my brothers and sisters, because Mother loved her children dearly and wanted to keep them home as long as she could. I have often wondered if she would have schooled us at home if that had been available in those days.
The publicity in the papers pressured the Department of Transportation to rebuild the road, which they did. The loss of a mother in her thirties with five children was not such a good thing.
My mother was buried in lavender. I love lavender to this day, especially as an accent with other spring colors. I do not love carnations. The smell of the flowers in the funeral home made my tummy sick. At recent funerals I have been glad to see and smell the trends of other flowers in funeral arrangements. I love graveyards. I spent many years going to my mother’s grave and placing flowers there. Not a year from my mother’s death date had gone by when my eldest brother died in training for the Viet Nam War. He had been drafted. My understanding is that he was ill and reported to the medical personnel but because of severe weather conditions where soldiers were reporting in sick to avoid being out in the elements, he was not believed. A week later he was believed when he died of spinal meningitis and left behind not only our family but a beautiful red headed fiance. So there were two graves side-by-side in Middletown Cemetery to remember. And I walked many steps all over that cemetery where my mother’s parents were also buried. My father is now there and on Memorial Day there are flags put on grandpa’s grave, my brother’s grave, and my father’s grave, representing service in World War I, World War II, and Viet Nam.
Although I attended my mother’s funeral, there was a great lack of understanding in my young mind. To go live with Jesus could possibly mean that she would be coming back. Everyone said she was with the Lord. As the circumstances of my life unravelled in the coming year, I held on to the hope that she would come back to live with us. As I grew to seven and eight years old, death became a reality. Mommy was not coming back. Mommy would not save me from the things that were going wrong. In fact, her very memory and name were wiped clean out of our home. I was depressed. If someone wonders if a young child can be depressed, I can attest to childhood depression as a real condition. And I can attest to the reality of a Cinderella childhood, laden with abuse and the occult at the hand of a step mother.
As I have walked this motherless path for 45 years it has been a mixture of sorrows. Sorrow at my piano recitals. Sorrow when I fell in love. Sorrow in the bridal shoppe choosing a dress and veil. Sorrow at my wedding. Sorrow at the birth of each child that my mama was not there. In the midst of such maternal joy there was always a deep sorrow that she was not there. Sorrows of longing her to say to me, “Oh, you did the same thing your little one is doing.” “Your hair was a bit lighter, but just as thick and straight.” Or longing for a helping grandmotherly hand. Or sighing in the mall when passing those displays of plaques that say “If Mom says no, ask Grandma.”
Yet there have been joys that I believe to be possibly more acute than what others experience because of my motherless status. I have watched other women enjoying their mothers and have basked in the sunshine of this witness. I have marvelled at my mother-in-love’s long relationship with her own mother because Granny lived until the age of 99. I have had such thanksgiving at the births of my friend’s babies when I see their mothers hold those newborns! And I walk the marketplace and view the grandmothers with the mothers and it brings a flush to my cheeks and the corners of my mouth turn to a smile. What others consider common and take for granted, I appreciate.
Being motherless all these years has given me a tender heart toward orphans or those whose living mothers have rejected them. It has been a joy to share their sorrow and yet share with them the good news that our Father does not neglect the widow and the orphan. His provision is special and direct.
One of those provisions in my life has been older women who have stepped in and taken over a piece of my mom’s job that she could not do for me. Some of these have been historical figures. The one most distant is my favorite woman in scripture – Rahab. She has pictured God’s grace to me as she was redeemed in spite of any way she had transgressed, and she was the one who had Boaz (who had Obed, who had Jesse, who had David) and therefore was part of the geneology of Jesus. I love Rahab. It is is as if she speaks right to me about the love of God, how He regenerates our hearts, and why we can walk forward regardless of any sin we have committed… and be a blessed mother too! She speaks to me about motherhood when I see the stories that follow in her multi-generational family. A more recent woman that has taught me is Anne Judson, wife to Adiniram Judson, the first missionaries to the totally heathen nation of Burma in the 19th century. Her short 37 years of life have affected me more than any other biography. And then there have been current authors that have stepped in with motherly advice. One is Elisabeth Elliot whom I have talked to several times and have followed her life story for many years, read her books, played the piano for her at her conference. She would not remember me, but I remember her. And then Joni Eareckson Tada who showed up to many youth meetings my senior year in high school. Her wheelchair-bound smile wondered me with it acceptance of lifelong suffering and I wanted to follow her submitted example. Yvonne Welch’s “Spiritual Rest in the Life of a Woman” has made a Titus 2 impact on me. Susan Hunt has also written to me about mothering and covenantal thinking and I still am absorbing her counsel bit by bit, gradually understanding why each jurisdiction in the world must be covenantal. There are many other authors I could list.
I can not underemphasize the care my older sister bestowed upon me in attempting to keep me clothed in my childhood when no one else was. She has a gift for sewing. I have the gift of organization. So she sewed for me and I organized our closet and drawers. She also took me under her wing and taught me to sew and make things. If she was taking a class somewhere, she’d take me along. If she was learning about something in a book, she’d buy a second copy for me. After she married, she provided many visits to her home where I would be sheltered for those hours and we were always productive in cake decorating, crafts, and working in her professional drapery business. She also gave me materials to work with my hands … wire art, quilling, cross stitch, decoupage, candle making, and so many things I can’t even remember. (My amazing older sister: http://www.betsyinteriors.com/ Check out the portfolio link AND the little blue box on the lower left corner.) When things got too tough at home, she moved me into her home for several months although this was not an easy thing to do at that time in her life. And I was not an easy person to have around.
God providential had me marry into a family that has blessed me in many ways. I have had the joy of knowing Granny, my husband’s grandmother, who taught me through her unfailing service and love to little children. My mother-in-love Peggy has been a teacher in the area of hospitality and trip planning as she far excels anyone I know in these things. Her determination to weather sickness and trials has often been a pillar to me when I have been ill or distressed. Her sister, Aunt Betty, has sent me loving letters of encouragement throughout the years and has advised me to keep a journal. Aunt Grace, whom I have only met a few times but have read about for many years from the letters of others, has modeled grace and loveliness in a way hard to describe.
My favorite pastor’s wife, Bethamy, endured through trials in the church and bore the burdens of her preaching husband with fortitude even when those trials turned their lives upside down. She also was the one to come to my house on the day my father died to hug me and empty her pockets of change so that we would have something in our pockets on the way back home to his funeral. And then there was Jeri who blessed me with encouragement and help when I birthed our first two babies. It was Lois who gave me the umph to have more children after having two very sick pregnancies, high blood pressure, gestational diabetes, and complicated births. I said to her that I could not do it again. Then in her sixties, she looked at me kindly and said, “When you are my age, nine months of sickness does not even count against the joy of having children and grandchildren. Take courage. Go have more children.” This was said when she was suffering a horrific trial with one of her adult children. That amazed me. A few years later, Lois was the first woman I have known to celebrate her 50th wedding anniversary and she is now a great grandmother several times over.
The list could go on, but I will mention that today there are older women in the field of home education that give me tidbits of advice and I have a computer file of notes from these contacts. I also listen to women when I am out of town and there always seems to be some older woman who says something to me about my family and then I ask her a question and she advises me. Titus 2 abounds if we only will look for it. Sometimes it comes in fragments and it is our responsibility to sew those pieces together. Just because I have lost my main source of Titus 2 in the loss of my mother has not left me without motherly help. I have to take the effort to find it at times. Or be content to go without it at times and wait on the Lord in new ways.
This year a foreign joy I had never known concerning the early loss of my mother came through an antagonist. The most cruel comment that has ever been hurled at me in my entire life was thrown forcifully with a dreaded tone of voice and it referred to my mother’s death and the road I have walked. Even in this arrow-piercing sting that dropped my heart to the floor and produced buckets of tears, I have learned a great lesson of forgiveness that only one who lost her mama as a little girl could learn. I consider this a great blessing in my life because it has taught me more of God’s love and grace in a big way for my little heart. And I know if my mama had heard what was said she would have shook her head sadly and then helped me to get on with life. Life is too short to dwell on the misunderstandings of others. Or when the “have’s” take down the “have-not’s.” She would sternly remind me to be careful not to walk in pride when I am the “have” in contact with the “have not.”
Yes, today is The Day. I look at my sweet little caboose. My last baby. My little Kimberly Joy. Five years old. Two top teeth just emerging. Long hair the color of what mine was at five. Reading little books. Coloring. Figuring out life. Acting like the CEO of our family. And I see myself in her. And I trust God that He has known best, that He has truly worked out all things for good, for those that are called according to His purpose.
Our dear Uncle Lee recently sent me something that I will close with. His words are very true. He is a godly man with wisdom to impart to us, which he often does through his letters to us, his stories about the 20th century, and the articles he writes. Here is what he sent me a few days ago.
As I was thinking about it I suddenly realized that remembrances of the past often have happy endings. Happy endings because God always provided positive results. The todays seemed always happy because of living in God’s presence and enjoying the blessings of His grace.
Thank you, Lord, for my mother and The Day you called her home.
We also did a time line of the Apostle Paul’s life and have a general map in our heads of where and what. These are quiet, calm, and cool studies for the evening when James stretches out about half-way in the 
Em has a good attitude towards this error. Says it is cool for the summer and that she has reverted back to her pre-school Pixie days. 
