My secret nemesis was the mother-daughter banquet. For years that was the time I felt most lonely, left out and stripped of identity. It wasn't that I had not acquired the status of "Mother." I had two perfectly healthy, lively boys at home and the pastor-husband to go with. But whenever the women's ministry leader decided to do mother-daughter banquets, I felt like hiding under the nearest pew. Never did I feel my motherless state so acutely. My mother had been killed in a house fire that destroyed our home when I was thirteen. Just the idea of a mother-daughter banquet invited that "I don't belong here" thought that just wouldn't leave and bitter tears wouldn't wash away.
Don't mistake me. I always cheerfully appeared, that smile carefully pasted on my face with no sign of distress. Probably anyone who knows me and reads this will gasp in surprise. As Christian leaders we cover our wounds so well. I never voiced objection to the idea and never proposed alternative plans. I don't think I could have maintained my composure and done so. I arrived with a smile, sometimes delivered the devotion, and left heavy-hearted still smiling, only to cry myself silently to sleep at night. Even my husband was unaware of my pain.
But God never fails us. In the years since, God has blessed me with two daughter-in-laws, both lovely in very different ways. The frosting on the cake was the arrival of my two granddaughters. I seldom feel crushed by the need of a mother these days. God has promoted me to the position of Grandmother, and I'm loving it.
However, I'm much more aware of those hidden burdens women carry, particularly those in ministry. Loneliness is more profound in festive company.
Ramblings
This time, I'm hiding in the coffee shop near the entrance. I'll be sure I leave at least 5 minutes before closing time. I can just hear the clink of handcuffs!!!
At the house, we'd been surrounded by flood waters for twenty-four hours. My Dad had stood grim-faced on the porch as we watched the slowly advancing line of water. It reached the fence on the other side of the driveway and stopped. We weren't prepared to be marooned there, city-folks recently transplanted to the countryside.
Dad decided that a trip to the grocery store was necessary. About dark the four of us piled into the old 1959 Edsel and started down the quarter mile long lane to the main road. We started off slowly. About half-way down the lane moments of complete darkness engulfed us as the headlights dipped beneath surface of the water. Dad was muttering.
"If these puddle weren't so deep, we'd make it" he said.
By now my mom was praying aloud. I don't remember what she said, I just knew that we were in trouble because her voice sounded desperate.
Suddenly the lights dipped again. This time, it stayed dark. We sat there for a moment or two while Dad rationalized why we hadn't gotten all the way down the lane. We weren't going quite fast enough to keep the water moving ahead of us. The puddles were too deep. He hadn't realized that the water was above the 5-feet tall fence posts in the lane. And on he went.
Then in a quick exchange, they decided that Dad would go back to the house for the tractor. Mom was worried and offered to go because he was "down in his back" a mysterious condition that occasionally caused him great pain and to walk in a bent position like an old man for a few days before he'd suddenly recuperate and resume his usual strenuous lifestyle. He said the water was flood water and too swift for her. She'd be swept off her feet. She thought we should go together. He shook his head. He couldn't carry me with his back this bad and the water could well be over my head. I was in 3rd grade.
Dad warned us to get on our feet in the seat because he was opening the door. Mom prayed really loudly for just a second.
The next thing I knew, the water hit my feet and I jumped into the space between the rear window and back seat of the sedan. I lay there for a long time while my little sister crouched on the seat with water up to her armpits. In the front seat mom sat in water past her waist. She was quiet now, but I knew she was still praying.
In time we heard the sound of the tractor in the distance and the headlights pierced the gloom that surrounded us. Without further incident, Dad hooked a chain to the car and pulled it backward back to the house.
Forever after we referred to the Edsel as our boat. But every time we did Dad would begin to mutter that it wasn't a very good boat because it didn't float and didn't get us to our destination.
Ten days ago, the girls had a manicure and fresh paint for nails, including cute little flowers! I finished Spring Break and went back to school. My picture of the "last" snow pile of the season surrounded by green grass is in my camera on my desk at school. So you are spared that visual detail.
He neatly stacked the TP.
Really! I did! Don't you think that should count for the first thirty minutes of movement???
Nothing like my beloved Crocs to rest my permanently 5 inch arched feet. I kept a sharp lookout for Clinton and Stacey today because I surely didn't want to be caught out in my Crocs. No way are my comfy shoes going into the garbage.
FRIDAY FILL IN
That was the year of the long autoworkers strike. By November my Dad had decided that it was going to last too long and cost too much. He chose to take the savings that he had, to follow his dream and buy the farm that he was saving to purchase. So once again, I found myself in a country school. This one was a one-room schoolhouse. One teacher taught all eight grades.
Cultural continuity resumed. I was a stellar student. Since I was reading fluently in third grade, I began teaching the first grade readers while the teacher worked with the non-readers. My "teaching" consisted of round robin reading. Our circle was over in the corner by the potbelly stove first thing every morning. I also listened in to all the other lessons. Soon I was included in the fourth grade math class and occasionally could be included in sixth grade history if my work was completed to the teacher's satisfaction. For me it was
The next year, the crops failed. For the winter we moved back to the city so that Dad could go to work in the automobile plant in order to earn enough money for the spring planting. I was in fourth grade. There were three fourth grade classes in the school; I was placed in the lowest. I was told that if I worked hard, I'd be able to work my way up to the next level. I was a fish out of water. Everyone had to line up to go everywhere. I have always hated waiting in lines.
Jeffrey first tipped me off. It was my second day in this school. After lunch the teacher handed out report cards with the usual instructions to have them signed and returned by parents. Then she announced that Jeffrey had made straight C+'s. Everyone smiled and applauded. There were whispered polite "congratulations" to the blushing little boy. He was shy, but seemed nice so at P.E. I asked why straight "C+" was such a big deal. To me it was not even an acceptable grade. I always earned A and B marks. To my dismay, I learned that even 100% on all class work equaled only a "C" because I was in the "C" class. My mouth dropped open. I alternated between anger at the injustice of it all, determination to get out of there, and discouragement at the bar set so high. Even at age 9 I recognized the trap I was in: how could I possible earn above a "C" in order to get moved up to the "B" room or the "A" room if even 100% on everything is still only a "C"? Or in exceptional cases, a C+.
I was bored with the work and with the books available. No more listening in to science and social studies lessons of the upperclassmen; no more peeks into Shangri-La courtesy of Lost Horizon by James Hilton. I missed my friends from Louisa May Alcott's Little Women, Little Men, Jo's Boys, Rose in Bloom, Under the Lilacs, Eight Cousins. I can't recall the titles of the books available to us, but the stories didn't interest me and were far too easy, the characters and topics did not transport me to lands far away. I was an alien, alone, trapped in urban mediocrity.
Occasionally I made a Herculean effort to do something right and earn those valued "C's." Dare I hope for a C+? Handwriting was stylized and compliance was mandatory for all assignments. In addition, there was the problem of my usually hurried messy handwriting. I stayed after school one day to do a handwriting exercise that I thought would get me into the "Penmanship Club". I labored intensely over the paragraph and wrote perfectly round letters. However, when my mom appeared at the door to take me home, wondering why I was late that day, I handed the paper to the teacher only to be told, "You know that one exercise does not get you into the Penmanship Club. You must consistently use excellent Penmanship on all assignments in order to qualify." At that point, discouragement won. I realized I was doomed to the "C" room for the duration of our time in
