I write this as we end the week of Thanksgiving. I guess this post could be about how celebrating Thanksgiving has evolved over my life time, but that is another story. This week’s post is about the woman who brought me, God’s creation, into the world…Momma.

My mother, like me, was born and raised in Alabama. She was born five years before the Great Depression and lived through it all. I’ve read books about the Depression and I heard bits and pieces of how difficult things were for my mother…however, never in detail. But then, that was my mother. She was never forthcoming with the details. When I think about what I do know, maybe she wanted to forget about the details.

My mother was tall, with an hour glass shape. She had unusually large hands and feet, but could ‘strut’ in high heel shoes. Wearing over 3” heels was nothing for her. The higher the better. How she walked in them on rocky roads I’ll never know. Most times, her hair was neatly combed to the back or in a ‘pompadour’. My mother didn’t wear clothing with vibrant colors or flowers. She always wore dresses…I never saw her in pants or any clothing above her knees. My mother had a beautiful smile. I’m often told I have a beautiful smile. Maybe it’s a trait I got from her. I can’t say my mother was ever happy, I mean laughing and having a good time…full of life. From what I know, life was very hard for my mother and it sucked happiness out of her.

My mother grew up in a very small, nondescript rural area of Alabama. She was the second of four children from the union between her father and mother, but a blended family of children on both sides…most of them much older. She went up to the eighth grade of school but did not finish. She could read and write at the level of her education, but not very good at it or any other subject matter. She simply didn’t know. (This would present a challenge with homework for me). Today, she would be referred to as a functional illiterate. Because of her lack of education and everything else, my mother’s life was that of hard work and a broken heart.

I’m not sure when she was first married…maybe nineteen or twenty… but it was the beginning of a broken heart. I know she had her first child, a boy, when she was twenty-one. The first marriage didn’t last very long because her husband was killed at a card game while she was still pregnant. She gave birth alone with the help of a Midwife, just as she gave birth to me…alone.

She doted on her son. I know because she talked about him all the time…not some time…all the time years later. I believe he was a bright spot in her life…someone who needed her and wouldn’t use her. But that too ended in a broken heart. Her first born died tragically at six years old from a house fire. I was a baby of two months when this happened. If not for a passer-by, as I was told, we probably would have all died.

At some point after the death of her first husband, there was an illicit affair with my biological father. If you wanted to see the “dark side”, ask her about it. She never had anything to say…except to tell me his name…nothing else. I believe she loved my biological father but it was a love she couldn’t have nor would he give. He was married. Here she was again heart broken, giving birth to a baby girl and alone. She attracted men, but they didn’t stay, thus her telling me often, “be independent and trust no man.” She did trust another man and married him when I was almost four years old. He was a World War II veteran. He wooed her with fancy stories of far away places…giving her moments of laughter. I’m sure she thought brighter days were ahead..but her marriage to him can only be described as “bare foot and pregnant” ‘54, ‘56, ‘57, ‘58 and ‘60…babies. I distinctly remember asking her when I understood what the growing belly meant…”are you having another baby?’ I need not say that was not the best question to ask.

I remember my mother working in a school cafeteria as one of the cooks. Most of the time, she was the “Help”. I remember her walking to work and being there all day…cooking, cleaning doing everything required to earn a measly sum of $12 a week…literally a step above slave labor. She worked for one family from the time their only child was born (around the same time I was born) until the child was a teenager. She worked for three different families going from $12 to $20 to $25 a week. How can you live, feed, clothe six children with that sum of money. Yes her husband worked, but his salary was not much better…and I have yet to figure out what he did with it. With my mother being the “Help”, as the oldest, I became her “Help”. She made me do everything she didn’t want to do…including caring for babies. I began rocking babies at six years of age. I began cooking at nine years of age. So that she could continue being the “Help”, I was caring for the youngest one at nine weeks old. I know that does not seem possible, but I was far beyond my years because my mother made me do things without a thank you or a word of appreciation…NEVER! She even had me go work as the “Help”…telling me what to do and how to do it when she was sick to keep her job. I was my mother’s slave.

I don’t remember her ill treatment before all the babies, but along the way as I grew older and looked more and more like my biological father. Remember, I looked like him and acted like him. She took out all the hurt and what she was trying to forget on me. As I think about it, I became repulsive to her because every time she saw me, she saw the person who broke her heart. She never touched me, hugged me, said she loved me ever. Whenever something I was told to do was not to her satisfaction, she made me do it over and over until she was satisfied. During her spells of dissatisfaction, she used a switch…often and seemingly over anything. I tried hard…very hard to do everything right.

I remember an instance when she told me to run along to open the back door of the house with what was called a ‘skeleton’ key. I managed to get the door opened, but then couldn’t open the front door. She took the switch to me for having her stand outside. And then there were the times she took the switch to me for things “old and new”…shear torture. As a result, I learned to do a lot for myself. I was afraid to ask her for anything…fearing she would take the switch to me for asking. Her treatment along with telling me to be independent and trust no man almost marked me for life. Even now, I can’t say I am beyond it all. As bad as her treatment was of me, I didn’t hate her, talk back to her and desperately tried to please her. I wanted my mother to like me. I learned to live with it. What else was I to do? I never thought of running away even. There was no place for me to go. I remember singing at church…”where could I go, where could I go, seeking a refuge for my soul. Needing a friend to save me at the end; where could I go but to the Lord”.

Years went by…even through the migration and beyond. I kept trying to please my mother. What I wanted from her she was not capable of giving…love. I know that now. She had loved, but it resulted in a broken heart and tragedy. She had loved resulting in babies and a philandering husband. Even sadder yet, she was a devout Christian and said she loved Jesus, but did not know the love of Jesus.

I would discuss how things were between us with older women I respected. The conversation that stayed with me a very long time…”’your mother is jealous of you”. As her daughter, I didn’t want to accept or believe that to be the case. However, in 1992, I cut ties with my mother…and became estranged. Trying to please her was affecting me emotionally and physically. I simply gave up…done. I wish I could say being estranged didn’t bother me…it did..

Things were made worse when I was asked about my mother. I literally had nothing good to say and didn’t want to say anything negative about her either. I began to talk to the Lord (pray) about it. “You know I don’t want to say anything bad about my mother”. As I talked to Him more and more, it came to me that she had taught me to cook. My mother was an excellent cook. I felt good about saying how she taught me to cook, but I wanted more to say. I continued to talk to God about it. What else can I say? Sitting in the closet, in the dark, I heard very clearly…”if not for your mother, you would not know Jesus.” I doubled over in ugly tears. It was only at that moment I realized the good thing my mother had done for me. It was because of her that I heard, confessed, believed and gave my life to Jesus…everything (or anything for that matter) she ever did to me pales in comparison to her telling me about Jesus.

After sobbing for a long time and as memories came back to me, I asked God to forgive me for walking away from my mother…no longer caring about her or for her…FORGIVE ME…PLEASE FORGIVE ME!!! I even asked Him to forgive my mother (although long dead at the time) for her ill treatment of me. Another burden lifted. A burden I didn’t know I was carrying.

Here is what I know about having a true relationship with God. He will accept you with all the imperfections of sin in your life. As you remain with Him, he chisels away those imperfections, softening your heart to become a new creation. (“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.)

2 Corinthians 5:17 ESV

As I write this, it reminds me all over again the beauty of aging…looking back and seeing how God has been with me from the beginning just as He promised. (…the Lord appeared to him from far away. I have loved you with an everlasting love; therefore I have continued my faithfulness to you.”). Jeremiah 31:3 ESV.

‘This I Know’…He continues to chisel away at my heart so that I may grow in the grace and knowledge of Jesus Christ…so that I may walk in a manner worthy of His calling. My mother carried me to church as a baby. Laying there on the hard, rough hewn pews I heard over and over the name I learned to love. It is and remains the the sweetest name I know…Jesus. THANK YOU MOMMA!

Vivian