it's [almost] mother's day!
treasuring mothers lost and found
Welcome back readers, and welcome, new readers.
All three of us grew up in the US, and even for expats the middle of May still means one thing: Mother’s Day.
All three of us have a magnificent mother (Norann actually has two: her mother Johanna who died when she was two, and her stepmother Roswith). We can’t wait to introduce you to them. But not today. Each of us have discovered other mothers in the most unexpected places and when we most needed them, and this year we wanted to extend our Mother’s Day tribute to those women with whom we share no biological kinship, but rather a deep and lasting connection of love, women about whom it could be said, in the words of George MacDonald:
She was a mother. One who is mother only to her own children is not a mother; she is only a woman who has borne children. But here was one of God's mothers.
Celebrating Mother’s Day is supposed to be a joyful experience, but it is often a day filled with complex emotions. For those who have lost their mothers (through death or estrangement), never knew their mothers, or who wish they could become mothers, this time of year can be one of loss and longing rather than celebration. We hope that you will be encouraged by reading about the stand-in mothers we’ve found when ours were gone or far away.
Norann – in Danthonia, New South Wales, Australia
I love celebrating Mother’s Day because even though I have lost both of my mothers (biological and step), I have found more mothers than I ever deserved. (For some background on the history of Mother’s Day and our mothers, enjoy this video discussion from Chris and me.)
One of these undeserved mothers is my mother-in-law, Nancy. From long before my wedding to her son, Nancy took me into her heart and home. She’s not an “in-law” to me at all, but simply my mother. We have had many times to live near to each other — first in Pennsylvania, then in Australia — and, most recently, it’s a been a great gift to welcome her back to Australia since she lost our dad, Jerry, to cancer. But our love for each other transcends physical geography to the landscape of the heart.
As I experienced the way she’s mothered me – tidying up my house on a busy day (I’m the worst housekeeper ever!), reading stories to and caring for our sons when they were younger, providing a listening ear and words of encouragement and perspective always — I realized that I’m not the only recipient of her mother-love. She shares it with everyone around her, regardless of their age or station.
But there are some moments that remain uniquely ours: the many morning walks to the community high school where we (both!) taught English, her gentle and reassuring presence at the birth of our three sons, and that we were together when Dad (her beloved husband of 55 years) took his last breath.
Even though we are different characters she doesn’t try to change me, but revels in our shared loves of hospitality, laughter, literature, and faith.
Mom Nancy inspires me that mothering — the calling to invest in the souls around you with your entire heart — is a limitless gift we can share throughout our lives.
Trudi – in Yeongwol, South Korea
Both in my childhood and adult life, moments came when a mother—not my own— stepped into my life. If I try to think of one specific mother figure, I can’t. Instead many women stand out in my memory, their motherliness imprinting itself on just one unexpected, memorable moment. Like a fleeting rainbow on a drop of water.
I have a good mother of my own, but of course she is not omnipresent and sometimes the One who is everywhere, calls forth other mothers. I hope that I may be ready to be a mother at any moment, to anyone. . . .
This is a tribute to those who appeared for me:
I didn't ask for mothering, I didn't know my need, but she was there. Perhaps she knew, or maybe only I did, but in that moment she was my mother. She had children of her own, and she had none. She knew me well, and she knew me not. She shook my hand or looked into my eyes. She said a few words or she said none. She sent a letter or walked with me. She --and this more rare-- enfolded me in her arms. No matter what she did or didn't do, her heart reached mine. She knew my pain and held it for the one who gave me birth, and for the One who gave me breath-- for my Creator, in whose image she was created, from whose Great Heart her own heart loves. In that moment, she was Mother.
Marianne – in Woodcrest, upstate New York
Allow me to introduce to you Gwen Hinde. Gwen was a tiny woman, untiringly gracious, perceptive and forthright, and extremely fond of her noisy pet canary Aled Jones. She had lived at the Bruderhof since 1949 when, at the age of 29, she traveled from South Carolina to Paraguay, to which the Bruderhof had fled from Nazi persecution during World War II. In 1959 she married John Hinde, an Englishman who had worked at Lloyds of London before himself making the perilous wartime sea voyage to Paraguay: horrified by wartime suffering, he was looking for “a life that removes the occasion for war.” John and Gwen moved to Woodcrest, the community where I grew up and still live, in the 1990s. Since they had no children, the Hindes were cared for by a succession of younger couples who lived next door to them, helping them with household duties, providing an arm as they walked to communal gatherings, and sharing each other’s company on weekends and in the evening. Living with someone of a different generation is an education (for the young) in the skills that make community life possible: humor, persistence, and humility. “This life is a life of daring,” John liked to say. “It’s the life here itself that is the adventure.”
One of these couples was my brother Rich and his wife Roxanne; sadly John died not long after they moved in by the Hindes, but Gwen kept on bravely. Actually, she continued living with tremendous gusto. A gracious hostess, she enjoyed having company in her house in the evening, sipping her trademark nightcap of a single shot of port served over an ice cube. She liked being read aloud to, it could be Scripture or stories by Damon Runyon. Best of all were family mealtimes, Gwen was very appreciative of good food, whether her favorite deviled eggs (which she called “dee-viled” to avoid saying the name of the Evil One) or popcorn shrimp in the local diner. I was still single at the time and came to enjoy spending weekend and evening times with Gwen. Driving her to doctor’s appointments, which I did regularly, was always a delightful outing, never complete until we had stopped for ice cream on the way home. I helped her clean her house every week, this included dusting the leaves of her numerous African violets with an old-fashioned shaving brush and, after cleaning the floor, placing the feet of the chairs on specific intersections of the floor tiles: Gwen was a woman of great precision. I once watched her address an envelope in her minute exquisite writing and said, “I could never write that neatly.” She looked at me severely and said, “It is a matter of con-sid-er-ation.” Gwen expressed her love to others by careful attention to the smallest details of life.
Then my niece Frida was born, and for the first time in her life, Gwen lived in a household with a child. Over the next decade, her walls would blossom with pictures of her “grandchildren” – the children of the couples who took turns being her family. Just as she had mothered the many older singles she and John had welcomed into their home during their marriage, she now found a new calling as a grandmother. By this time I was married, and when we were expecting our second child, we asked if we could name the baby for her if it was a girl. “Of course, my first name is actually Thelma,” she informed us. We said thank you, we liked the name Gwen. The baby was a boy. “The one baby that would have been named for me is the only boy in his year!” she lamented as nine girls were born into our community in 2011.
In June of 2012 her health started to fail. I took our son, ten months, to say goodbye to her, and to thank her for her love and example. “Do you remember that this is the one we would have named for you?” I asked her. Of course she did. I promised Gwen that if there ever was a girl, she would have her name, and know why she had it. “I will have so many grandchildren,” she replied. (I found out afterwards that ten minutes earlier, another couple had visited and told her that a coming baby would be given her name.) Childless Gwen – so humble, gracious, and loving – was cherished as a mother by many people. She died two days later, age 92. In June 2013, two days short of a year from our final conversation, our first daughter and her namesake was born.
What we’re enjoying
Norann
What I’m reading: Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment with my Year 12 Literature class. Each time I read it I’m immersed in the truths of redemption that are borne from suffering, acceptance, and repentance. Mother’s Day celebrates the joy of the motherhood, but also honors its sacrifice and suffering. Dostoyevsky encourages us through his characters that “Suffering, too, is a good thing. ….Fling yourself straight into life, without deliberation; don’t be afraid—the flood will bear you to the bank and set you safe on your feet again.”
What I’m listening to: I drove an old car on some back roads this week. I brought a CD to enjoy (as I said, it’s an old car), but the player just buzzed and spat the disc out. After driving in quiet for some time, I tried the radio and was happily introduced to the Korean pianist Yiruma.
Marianne
What I’m looking for: My daughter Gwen (mentioned above, now in fourth grade!) and I are on the lookout for spring wildflowers as part of a class activity. We’ve identified over thirty in the past couple weeks and we’re enjoying the folk names for the flowers as much as the flowers themselves: old maid’s nightcap, fairy spud, herb barbara, thimbleweed, hairy bittercress, crinkleroot, old-field five-fingers; we could imagine ourselves in the land of Tom Bombadil.
What I’m listening to: It’s the season for Mendelssohn’s short song “Die Nachtigall” (The Nightingale), which is in the running for loveliest known melody.
Die Nachtigall, die war entfernt,
der Frühling lockt sie wieder.
Was neues hat sie nicht gelernt,
Singt alte liebe Lieder.
The nightingale was far away,
Spring has lured her back.
She has learned nothing new:
She is singing her old beloved songs.
Trudi
What I’m reading: No Compromise, the biography of Keith Greene written by his wife Melody. I’m not finished but already am challenged by the sense of urgency with which he lived. His life was a continual search for truth. And when he found the Truth, he ate it, drank it, and told the world about it with every breath. He was a special character, but so is each of us. We each have our own way to glorify God.
What I’m listening to: Keith Green’s songs, written straight from his heart. They go straight to mine. Here’s one.
And now, to end: a recipe
Contributed by Trudi: Our family always had a small vegetable garden and my mom always left some space for kale. Here’s a recipe she loves to make and I only dream of. (Haven’t found kale in Korea yet). Of course, it’s the kind of recipe you can simplify or enhance as you like. If you’re planting a garden of your own, consider adding kale. You’ll love it!
