Mother’s Day invokes strong feelings in each of us. It is one of celebration or sorrow. It is loving someone close by or from afar. It is giving gifts or celebrating memories. It is recognizing the gift of nature or nurture.
It is the recognition of womanhood for those who have birthed babies and those who have loved babies. Let me explain.
When I was growing up, my family lived next door to my great-aunt and great-uncle. Everyone called them Aunt Ethel and Uncle Mike. While my aunt never had any biological children, she raised Uncle Mike’s son, Mick, and my dad, Jack. My dad went home from the hospital with them and slept in a dresser drawer. My grandmother's last-minute decision was for him to be raised by her sister and brother-in-law. They were delightfully surprised and duty-bound to provide for my dad.
When I came along about 19 years later, my mom and dad lived next door to my aunt and uncle. I’m not entirely sure of the origin of how it happened, but I was either a fussy baby and started living with them at six months of age, or my uncle was in the hospital, so I went to keep my aunt company at three years old. Whatever age, I never went back home, so I lived as an only child with six siblings (six, to be exact).
I learned leadership skills, values, and style from both extraordinary women in my life. My mother was a young mother (18 years old) who had lost her mother suddenly just two years before my birth. Aunt Ethel became a surrogate mother to my mom, Jackie. She became mom’s stability when chaos erupted at their house. When seven children in 14 years took its emotional and physical toll on my mom, Aunt Ethel exhibited traits of kindness, hospitality, and unconditional love. She had mad cooking skills, and it was nothing for someone to sit at our table and share food with us. Many times, I walked in to be greeted by strangers. Uncle Mike thought nothing of bringing them from his greasy garage to the lunch or dinner table. Hospitality was abounded in our home.
My mother taught me grit, tenacity, and perseverance. With my dad, who worked three jobs to support his growing family, she worked at home but always had a part-time job. We grew up going to work with her at the summer playground or on our school bus, and this 5’2” woman drove with a block on the pedals so she could reach them and watch traffic and kids at the same time. It was a long walk to high school, so if you couldn’t afford the dime to ride, she paid it herself, crowded the bus so everyone had a seat, even if on the floor, and kept us safe during all types of weather.
These women taught me about diversity, acceptance, tolerance, and humanity. They modeled servant leadership to whosoever and lived life in constant service to others. They advocated for others, welcoming them into their homes when they had no place to live. They cared for their children after school when the women worked from home in one of the oldest professions known to a woman. As their children sat outside on the doorstep, my mom took them home and left a message to call when they should come home. There was no judgment, condemnation, or misunderstanding, just support and love.
My Aunt Ethel went to be with the Lord in 1989, and my mother suffers from dementia. They do not know me now, nor can I interact with them emotionally, but I have memories, skills, and a leadership style that I call “Authentic,” which they know was influenced by them. The Bible tells me, “God, your Redeemer, who shaped your life in your mother’s womb, says: I am God, I made all that is.” (Isaiah 44:24). They encouraged, modeled, and taught me how to be a woman of faith.
I am grateful for my unconventional childhood and two mothers—one of nature and one of nurture. I love the skills they instilled in me and how they modeled their lives, which influenced many others. They loved, laughed, cried, mourned, and celebrated life. They loved me unconditionally, even during my rough years. They polished and polished and polished until I learned to shine like the diamond I was meant to be.
They would have cheered, celebrated, and cried as I became the first woman in our lineage to complete a doctorate. Angela Duckworth wrote a book called Grit, and I believe it was about women like my mother and great-aunt.
On this Mother’s Day, I am humbled by my heritage and my legacy in the image of my mother and great-aunt. May we all have those women in our lives that complete us.
What She Said ~ Beverly
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