Category Archives: childhood memories

A Journey to Stepmother Love

09 Friday May 2014

Posted by in childhood memories, emotional needs, letting go of anger, stepmom relationship, the healing journey

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Step-mother-love-01I was nine years old when my parents divorced. I’ll never forget that day. After hearing the news, I ran into the woods behind our house and cried my eyes out. “Why? Why? Why?” I cried to God.

Those repressed memories surfaced a while back in a therapy session as I got in touch with the little Ardis who was hurting from the trauma of this event. I’ve processed this before, but this time I remembered something new. I remembered that I told my father I hated him. It became one of those pivotal moments in my life when I decided I had to be a BIG girl and stuff my emotions.

I surfaced from those woods, calm and collected. I WAS a big girl. But try as I might, that anger at what was going on between my parents was still there. Both of my parents soon remarried. I lived with my mother and stepfather thousands of miles away from my father, who had retained our family home as part of the divorce settlement. The only time I got to see him was on summer vacation periods. His remarriage was so short-lived that I never met his new wife and never even considered her a stepmother.

When I was 13 years old, another woman came into my father’s life, and he remarried again. Inside I’m sure I was devastated, although I never talked to my father about it. I was desperately searching and longing for his love and approval. After they wed, my summer visits were spent at her home. My days were long, lounging around the house watching soap operas, and taking care of her dog—not much fun for a teenage girl. Yet I continued to worship the ground my father walked on.

My stepmother treated me fairly. I don’t remember being mean or unruly with her. I never called her ‘mom’, only by her first name.  But to hear her tell of this time in my life, I get a very different story. It’s a story about an angry, lazy teen that didn’t do much of anything, and made her wishes and demands known to all within earshot.

The healing of that turbulent angry young teen took many years of deep spiritual growth and recovery work. And when my father passed away two years ago at the age of 94, I had already forgiven him and learned to accept that he could not give me the kind of love I had longed for.

But it was the love of his wife, my stepmother, which really helped to fill that hole in my heart.

Over recent years, we have spent countless hours on the phone, talking about adult women issues, and sharing our hearts. She has been a big supporter of my writing and always wants to hear about what is going on in my life.

Interestingly enough, what brought us together was the empathy and compassion we both received from an understanding of what it was like to live with my father. They were married 38 years.

As I got healing for my father wounds, I was able to come alongside her more as well. She endured long suffering as she cared for my father the last several years of his life. She sacrificed. She toiled. And when he passed, she asked me to write his eulogy, and gave me and my siblings carte blanche on how to run his memorial service. It was a huge gift to me.

My stepmother celebrated her 80th birthday recently, with a huge party of friends and family. While I barely knew any of them, my family and I traveled the 150 miles to celebrate with her. She’s been a pillar of strength for me to lean on these past several years. I owe her that much in return. After all, while I didn’t recognize it much over the years, she has been to some degree the mother I never had.

We had a rocky start, but this journey to stepmother love has been worth the wait. Happy Mother’s Day, MOM!

~ Ardis A. Nelson

STAIRCASE TO A BETTER PLACE AND TIME

27 Thursday Mar 2014

Posted by in childhood memories, emotional needs, encouraging each other, generations coming together, God's healing love, Learning to appreciate Mom, reach out and touch, the healing journey

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stairs

My mother turned 99 in January. She resides in a nursing home that feels like a prison. I must always wait in a glassed-in foyer to be buzzed into the hallway that leads to my mother’s room. And, I must always wait for a go-ahead signal in order to exit the building.

One of the nurses affectionately calls Mom, “99.” Mom laughs at her nickname. She recognizes the love behind it, and she appreciates the humor and attention. My mother is blind, cannot walk, eats only pureed food, sleeps most of the day, and will not—at 5 o’clock in the late afternoon—remember that one of her children visited at lunchtime. My siblings and I keep a calendar taped on the side of the wardrobe in her room, so we can sign our names on the days when we visit.

“See here where Ella came yesterday,” I say in order to make conversation.

“No,” Mom emphatically responses. “Ella has not been to visit for a long time.” My siblings and I never correct Mom. Why try to set her straight?

Once Mom asked me to go upstairs and get a blanket for her. There is no upstairs. In Mom’s mind, we are back in my childhood home. “There’s one right here,” I say as I walk over and open the wardrobe. Mom is satisfied, and the fact that there is no upstairs—that we are not in my childhood home—never becomes an issue.

Then, on another occasion, Mom invited me to eat with her. We were sitting together in the nursing home dining hall. Mom thought we were in a restaurant. “No,” I replied. “I’ll wait to eat with Joe when I go home.” She accepted my reason for not eating in the “restaurant.”

But, after the meal as I was pushing her wheel chair out of the room, she turned her head back to me and said, “Did you pay?”

“It’s taken care of,” I replied.

Lately, my mother wants to sleep through lunch. She is too exhausted to raise the spoon to her mouth. And when she tries to feed herself, the result is a mess. “Want me to feed you?” I now ask.

And, my mother replies, “Yes, please.”

I feed her like I used to feed my children when they were babies in the highchair. The task of feeding her brings fond memories to mind of my urchins with their beautiful, happy faces, playing “pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man; roll ’em up, roll ’em up; pitch ’em in a pan.”

My mother’s plate of food looks like the contents of baby food jars were deposited on it. I am forced to read her menu in order to learn that the light tan mush is chicken and gravy, and that the mossy green blob is seasoned green beans. I feed her like I used to feed my toddlers, even scraping food off her chin and from the corners of her mouth.

It is sad to see all this decline, but there is something very special about these times together. We are a very quiet twosome. Except for an occasional softly-spoken comment or question from me, we sit in silence. The moment is ours, and I do not want to share it with any of the other residents or nurses’ aides as they scurry about from table to table. “You’re doing a great job,” I say. “The plate is almost empty,” I inform. “Does it taste good?” I ask. “Do you want to eat more, or are you full?” I inquire.

Mother and child sit together in the “restaurant,” located in the “downstairs of my childhood home.” We share the quiet, reverent moment. But, who is the mother? Who is the child? Our roles have become as blurred as the space around us. I can’t imagine anyone around us, who is as happy as we are because our imaginations—rooted in faith—have knocked down the prison walls and have built a staircase to a better place and time.

When Mother Love Must Be Tough Love

24 Monday Mar 2014

Posted by in challenges of motherhood, childhood memories, God's healing love, rejecting lies, the healing journey, when tragedy hits

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Water Under the Bridge

A mother’s love may be tested and tried almost beyond endurance, until it has the opportunity to shine like gold refined in a furnace.

Such is the case with the mother described in the novel, Water Under the Bridge, by Verna Simms (Verna is also a contributor to the book, Journeys to Mother Love and this blog.)

Verna’s novel surprised me with its vivid characters and setting and its powerful themes. If you have read Verna’s short memoir in the Journeys to Mother Love, this novel will provide background that will give you even more appreciation for Verna’s personal story. While Water Under the Bridge is fiction, it is based on Verna’s experience as a child. I am sure the wonderful main character of the story, a nine-year-old girl named Amelia, is very much like our Verna was as a child.

What was it like in the early 20th Century, when a father converted to Mormonism, sold the farm in Missouri and moved his family to the dry desert of Arizona, where he found freedom to embrace the teaching of polygamy? As the family struggled to make ends meet during the Great Depression, what was it like for the wife and children to have their husband and father bring into their home young wives no older than his eldest children? What was it like for the young daughter to deal with conflicting feelings of love for her family, normal experiences of growing up, and yet increasing disappointment and disdain for her father … and finally fear for her own future as she overhears what her father has planned for her?!

Where should the wife and mother’s loyalties lie?

An unusual and profound story! In places it is, perhaps, not for the faint of heart. But if you read it (and it is available in both paperback and Kindle) you will be rewarded with a great read, an engrossing story, and a beautiful picture of tough mother love!

Growth Rings in the New Year

02 Thursday Jan 2014

Posted by in childhood memories, the healing journey

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Fishing with my parents as a girl

Showing off the little trout I caught, about age nine, with my parents at Big Sur, California, circa 1959

It’s January 2 and why am I thinking about fish?

Well, taking a walk down memory lane and looking through old photos, I find plenty of snapshots of my family fishing. My mother and sister and I followed Daddy down trout streams in the California coastal hills and in the high Sierras many times. Those are some of my happiest memories: jumping from rock to rock along crystal-clear creeks, collecting colorful pebbles, learning to hold my little pink fishing pole, savoring fresh-caught trout fried over a fire.

Now that my husband and I live in Colorado, we often see fisher men and women along city ponds, thigh-deep in cascading mountain rivers, and casting flies into high-meadow streams and beaver ponds. This winter, as lakes are freezing over, we’ll soon see ice-fishing huts.

Fish

Many times in my life I’ve considered the secretive, flashing beauty of fish, heard them slap the water when they jump, watched my dad snag and reel in silvery beauties, gut and clean the keepers, scrape off scales. Not until this year, though, have I looked closely enough to consider the intricacy of a single fish scale and what it has to teach us.

In her book, Unwrapping Wonder: Finding Hope in the Gift of Nature, Carol O’Casey explains:

“What intrigues me about fish scales is … the rings of a fish scale represent years of growth. Similarly, our lives are inscribed with growth rings. God desires to enlarge our lives, our territory, and our character. However, unlike fish, our greatest growth occurs during the darkest times. Can we depend on ourselves during this time? Forget about it. It is precisely in rough waters, and when our resources are exhausted, that we cannot depend on ourselves. Growth occurs on the rim of risk. You risk failure, disappointment, loss. You gain growth. Occasionally, God has to nudge (okay, shove is more like it) us out of our comfort zones to enlarge our rings.”

As this new year begins, I’m asking myself: How has the Lord been nudging me out of my comfort zone in the past year? What growth rings will I, as a result, carry with me into the coming year and beyond? Will I continue to cooperate with Him in developing my “scales” as both a protective covering and a display of beauty created by His presence and grace in my life?

~ Catherine Lawton

Run, Run as Fast as You Can

21 Thursday Nov 2013

Posted by in childhood memories, confessing our need, emotional needs, encouraging each other, generational patterns, God's healing love, Influence of Grandparents, letting go of anger, the healing journey

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File:Gingerbread landscape.jpg

photo:Orsotron (Wikipedia)

Sunny days must have consistently won over rainy ones when I was a school-aged child because most of my memories are rooted in the long treks after the three o’clock dismissal. I would hightail it home, taking every shortcut through the backyards that stood between the elementary school and my front door.

“Run, run as fast as you can,” I would tell my feet, as I was distancing myself from those immature children who picked favorites and then picked on those they had deemed inferior.

There was no doubt whether or not I was on the list of the popular kids, but I never was ridiculed because I made myself invisible, an ability I learned from the dynamics in my home. This skill was utilized in almost every social circle. Go to school, do a little work; come home and see how my mother was doing; that routine suited me very well until it dawned on me that I could not remain invisible forever and survive.

One day when school was dismissed, the bright blue sky suddenly turned black and then proceeded to release every drop of its accumulated precipitation. “Run, run as fast as you can,” I told my feet. “Run to get out of the rain.”

At home I found my mother dozing on the day bed in the den while the soap operas told the sordid intermingling of the lives of beautiful people. I stopped in the bathroom and rubbed my wet hair with a towel. A glance in the mirror did not reveal a beautiful person, and I couldn’t blame the rain. Here at the onset of my teen years, I was faced with a great dilemma: I desperately wanted to fit in, but I was afraid.

Dropping my wet clothes on the floor, I pulled on a casual outfit which included my favorite sweatshirt. In it, I felt secure. Then I slid onto the couch that sat adjacent to my mother’s bed.

As I was my mother’s companion for TV’s “Guiding Light,” I imagined myself to be my father’s silent confidant, ever ready to pour out words of encouragement and comfort whenever he would choose to turn and acknowledge me. Something sad was brewing in his heart, and I wanted to help him. But he never chose to confide in me. Where was he, so deep in thought? Was he replaying the time he spent in World War II and the unbelievable atrocities he saw there?

I felt powerless to solve my parents’ problems. So I determined someday to lift them up on the shoulders of my happiness. Such was the grand, warped plan of my childhood.

As I waited for that bright future, I found some semblance of relationship with my maternal grandmother. I was drawn to her orderly home and gentle, disciplined spirit. And she was religious. While the entire extended family went to church every Sunday, she was the only one who put voice to her faith; she was the one who lived out the gospel with steadfast endurance. Grandmother had no time for moping. She hit the linoleum running in the morning. She had her share of difficulties, but she never let them define her.

Time slowly passed and, with great delight, I left the teen years behind. At twenty I was preparing to leave for the city to fulfill my destiny. But first I visited Grandmother. I nervously chatted away, keeping the conversation light and funny. All that talking, however, took an unexpected, woeful turn. Out tumbled many fears with a hint of the underlying anger. Then, since I didn’t like what I was hearing myself say, I iced it over by backtracking with remarks that served only as a layer of guilt.

There is no hope for me, I groaned within my spirit. Grandmother, however, intently listened without interrupting, like a psychologist who is assessing her client’s situation. When I finished, silence filled the space between us and I wanted to flee. But then Grandmother spoke and her words revealed the strength behind her small frame.

“We must take up our cross,” she simply said.

Our cross? What does the cross have to do with my plans for a life where everything is tidy, happy, and successful? What was Grandmother talking about?

While I could not make the connection of Christ’s cross to my life, Grandmother’s statement sank deep within my soul where it lay dormant for many years.

Grandmother lived to see me marry a fine man and have one daughter. My plans for a good life were set in motion. I kept our home immaculate. During the holidays, it looked like a Christmas card. Every spring and summer the flower beds declared: “Care and love reside within.” Boundless energy undergirded the dream. As long as I worked hard and pretended to be happy, surely my heart would catch up with my outward persona. However, deep down inside there was a faint echo: “Not right! Not right! Something’s missing.”

Then the second daughter was born. After one month of caring for the baby that would not settle, she was diagnosed with cancer. Fourteen months passed, and the surgery and radiation treatments did not fulfill their intended purpose; the cancer was back and now in her bone marrow. Chemotherapy was the new, last hope.

“Run, run as fast as you can,” I read to the older sister. “You can’t catch me. I’m the gingerbread man.”

Run, run to be there for the five-year-old sibling. Run, run to take care of the house, to look after the baby, to keep all of her appointments. … Run, run, I was running out of steam.

There were many rounds of chemotherapy. She received a treatment every day for one week, every third week, for two years. After one of the toddler’s chemotherapy treatments, I was sitting beside her on my big bed that had been prepared for her body’s violent reaction to the toxins. Several hours of vomiting and diarrhea would soon begin. While she slept, I read a book about an encounter a man had with Jesus when he was in prayer. (The book came into my life because I was searching for something/anything to help me cope.) I put the book down and let the pent-up tears flow. I was so sad. More than sad, I was angry. In my mind in that moment, the sleeping child beside me was not going to have the chance for a full life.

“I’ve done everything I know to do,” I told the ceiling. “It’s up to you now!”

Of course, I was not calling out to the ceiling, but to our heavenly Father. The prayer was a two-pronged one: one prong for the recovery of my sick child and one for me. I was tired, and I was lost. I was confused, and my best efforts had failed. I was so tired. “Run, run,” I was tired of running. I could no longer outrun God.

At that very moment of the prayer, Someone else started running. “Run, run,” God the Father was running as fast as he could, for he saw one of his children turn and start coming toward him (see Luke 15:20, the account of the Prodigal Son).

Jesus entered my life that day thirty-one years ago. The experience of the indwelling of the Holy Spirit is as real to me as the physical objects around me. The sick child survived and is now a grown, healthy, married woman. I no longer run aimlessly. God is the mainspring of my life. I now understand Grandmother’s response to the fact that the cross is the answer for my life. In order to bring glory to God, I have had to take up my cross daily and follow him. But with him, my burden is light because I am held up by his everlasting arms.

Did my life turn out to be perfect? Since that day on my daughter’s sick bed, have I lived “happily-ever-after”? I can only be honest and say, “No, of course not.” Am I perfect person? No, of course, not. But, there is a huge difference between the woman who was running to make a good life and the woman who now looks to God for the answers in her life.

~A.R. Cecil

Light Shining into the Darkness

08 Thursday Aug 2013

Posted by in challenges of motherhood, childhood memories, emotional needs, grief and loss, the healing journey, when tragedy hits

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Gadly Plain view

In relationships between husband and wife, father and daughter, mother and child, it can come as a shock to realize that—though we love and are loved—though we share a bond that unites us—we are each of us separate, individual, sometimes even, painfully, alone. Most of the time we seek and find comfort and consolation in the knowledge that the other is there, or will be there, and we aren’t alone. But if you have ever lost a close loved one to death then you know the feeling of finality, separation, other-ness, of no-more-ness that can choke the consolation out of your being.

This feeling is described well in the new novel, Gadly Plain by J. Michael Dew. The 12-year-old girl named Spring-baby loses her father to death and emotionally she falls into a chasm of sadness that “bullies her, keeps her wilted, sober.” At least she shares grief with her mother. But then her mother abandons her (because “Mom needs time for Mom”).

When the author was nine years old his own father got sick and died. The story of Gadly Plain is his artistic expression of his own inexplicable trauma and the answers he found after many years of searching for meaning in the whole experience of human history, personal life and death.

Mr. Dew is a believer and the creative vision he shares in this imaginative story is honest about human weakness and suffering, but rooted in truth and hope. The book begins with a quote: “I saw heaven standing open and there before me was a white horse whose rider is called Faithful and True” (Rev. 19:11).

The story itself is as earthy as a body in a casket, a girl in a tree, a donkey in a pasture, hay in a barn, an old lady smoking in a bathroom, a young woman driving aimlessly across the countryside, and a faithful farm hand giving a reassuring hug.

I challenge you, as a mother or a daughter, to face your own aloneness, watch and listen for the messengers the Lord of hope may be sending to you; and to help you do that, read the book Gadly Plain: A Novel.

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~Catherine Lawton

My Father’s Devotion

16 Sunday Jun 2013

Posted by in childhood memories, leaving a legacy

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Father and child

My father holding me as a newborn

This blog is about mothers, but today is Father’s Day and I want to affirm the importance and influence of fathers. We wouldn’t be mothers or daughters if it weren’t for fathers!

Daddy preaching on the radio

Daddy preaching on the radio

Here is a passage from my biblical novel, “Face to Face.” The main character, Joakima, is musing about her father. I’m sharing this on Father’s Day because I’m sure I had my own father in mind when I wrote this:

… My father was often called a devout [man]. He would sit at night at his cobbler’s bench while the smell of burning lamp oil permeated the room and the flame cast grotesque dancing shadows on the stone walls, and he would pore over his treasured copy of a portion of the prophet Isaiah. Early mornings he prayed alone on the housetop. He talked quietly with the people who came into his shop during the day. They came as often to see him as to buy his products. Often the men who came troubled and frowning, left looking resolute and calm. It just seemed the natural thing for my father: listening, nodding, speaking a soft word here and there.

And how he prayed! As a little girl, I would tiptoe up the steps to the roof and see him there on his knees, hands raised toward far-away Jerusalem. He fervently repeated the prayers of his fathers. Sometimes I knelt beside him and closed my eyes and tried to say the words with him. He didn’t seem to notice me, so enrapt was he….

(from Chapter Four, Face to Face : A Novel)

~ Catherine Lawton

Grace to Broken Mamas on Mother’s Day

12 Sunday May 2013

Posted by in challenges of motherhood, childhood memories, Gratitude, Learning to appreciate Mom, Parenting, the healing journey

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Mother's Day card from a child

I was cleaning my kitchen and an image of the upcoming Mother’s Day flashed in my mind. I pictured myself alone. By myself. No kids. No husband. Just me. It felt refreshing. Of course this mental image came right after all three of my children came in like a swarm of bees buzzing around me with, “Mama, can I have?” “Mama, can you get me?” “Mama! He hit me!” A constant buzz of wants, cries, and whines.

I pulled out a snack to calm these kiddos of mine. Looking at them sitting quietly (only because they had a mouth full of cocoa puffs), I resumed reality. I do want my Mother’s Day to be a celebration—more for the sake of my children, because I remember when I was a little girl excited to celebrate my mom. I would present her with the best handmade card ever created. Every year I gleamed with pride as I held out the pink construction paper fashioned into a fabulous declaration of “# 1 Mom!”. My mother accepted it with a smile, knowing that no matter how shaky my 5-year-old handwriting was, or how my crayon meant to draw a kitty cat that instead looked like a flat turtle with pointy ears, she loved it. I’m sure the idea of propping her feet up with a good book crossed her mind, but she always celebrated with her daughter instead.

Mother’s Day is a celebration. No matter how my relationship was with my mom, she decided to keep me, nurture me the best she could, and, simply, be my mom. I love her for that. And I thank God for knowing my mom would be the one for me.

Often times on the days when I feel so overwhelmed being a mother myself, I will hear an encouraging message reminding me of how God hand-picked me to be the mother of three creative, caring, spicy kids. They stretch my patience, my mind, and even my skin (as evident of the marks on my thighs!) But they also widen my heart and tame my selfishness.

I now understand my mom’s smile as she held the Mother’s Day card I made for her. She liked the card, sure; but she saw beyond the scribble. She saw a child, her child, drawing a different view of the world for her—a world that offered grace to a broken mama.

My sweet babies show me grace every day by wrapping their arms around me or cupping my face and saying, “I love you, Mama.”

Now that’s worth celebrating!

~Treva Brown

I Don’t Know About Tomorrow

10 Friday May 2013

Posted by in childhood memories, God as our parent, losing mom too soon, the healing journey

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Cosmos flowers against a blazing sunset

Mother’s Day is always on a Sunday, and many of my memories of my mother happened on Sundays at church. I practically grew up in church. Often on Sunday mornings, from my perch on a front pew, I’d watch Mother rise from the piano bench to stand behind the pulpit and minister in song with her beautiful soprano voice.

Mother would give a brief testimony of God’s sustaining grace in her life, then convey the music and words of the song with a such a sweet spirit that hearts were softened and prepared to receive Daddy’s biblical message. As Mother sang, she’d often lift one hand in testimony to the words of the song, because she was finding them true in her own life. That was certainly the case when she sang one of her favorites: “I Know Who Holds Tomorrow.”

In Journeys to Mother Love I shared briefly about the fire that burned our house down in the middle of the night when I was four years old, and the resulting trauma I experienced, as well as God’s wonderful provision and healing. I didn’t have space in the book to tell more background of how the Lord prepared Mother for that trial and assured her of his love and presence even as we walked through the flames.

The night of the fire our parents had taken my little sister and me with them to a campmeeting service. In that service a soloist stood and sang a wonderful new song with such anointing that throughout the auditorium people wiped tears from their eyes. Mother was deeply touched and, as she went to sleep that night, the words of the song rang in her mind as if God himself were speaking them to her:

I don’t know about tomorrow; I just live from day to day.

I don’t borrow from its sunshine, for its skies may turn to gray.

I don’t worry o’er the future, for I know what Jesus said;

And today I’ll walk beside Him, for He knows what is ahead.

… And the path that is my portion may be through the flame or flood;

But His presence goes before me, and I’m covered with His blood.

Many things about tomorrow I don’t seem to understand;

But I know who holds tomorrow, and I know who holds my hand.

–words and music by Ira F. Stanphill

Later that night, the one who grabbed my hand and held it tight as we fled fearfully through the burning house was my mother. And the One who held her hand, and had given her an assurance of that only a few hours earlier, was her heavenly Father.

I’m glad Mother was there in my childhood and youth. The One who walked beside her knew about the cancer and suffering and death that lay ahead for her. He knew we would lose her so young. But what she experienced and testified to and taught us continues to hold true for me as I move into uncertainties of my older years: He knows! He holds tomorrow in His hands. And He will continue to hold my hand.

~ Cathy Lawton

Journeying Together: A Group Interview

15 Monday Apr 2013

Posted by in childhood memories, confessing our need, encouraging each other, God's healing love, the healing journey

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Meadow-flowers-sillouette copy
All nine of us participated in this group interview, answering questions posed by Christina Slike, marketing director at Cladach Publishing. We’ve enjoyed getting to know each other better through this process, and so, we hope, will our readers.

INTERVIEW

 

1. Did you laugh or cry, or both, while you were writing your story?a pink butterfly

Ellen Cardwell: Surprisingly, I didn’t do either. Rather, writing the story released something inside that needed to come out. I feel lighter now whenever Mom comes to mind.

Treva Brown: I completely did both. I also felt anger, but was able to fully release it quickly.

Ardis Nelson: I went away to a secluded camp so I could focus on writing and prayer. I cried at times. Now my tears are tears of joy.

Kerry Luksic: In writing this story, I had plenty of tears. My mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s eight years ago. It was hard to accept that there’s no cure and that it’s progressive–Mom would only get worse through each heartbreaking stage. But in sharing this story, the tears I shed were healing for me.

Loritta Slayton: I don’t think I did either, but I felt the emotions again–the upset, the struggle and the joy of what God accomplished in me that I couldn’t do for myself.

Kyleen Stevenson-Braxton: I always cry when I write about God’s grace in giving me two beautiful adopted children. It reminds me afresh of his mercy and love.

a pink butterfly2. What do you especially relate to in one or more of the other women’s stories? 

A.R. (Alice) Cecil: I can relate to all the other authors in JOURNEYS TO MOTHER LOVE. We all found the only way to healing is through Jesus Christ, and we all want to help others by sharing our experience.

Catherine Lawton: Treva Brown tells of how her mother died even younger than mine did (and by much more violent circumstances). I relate to her regret over some of the words she had said to her mother, and wishing she had said certain other words before it was too late.

Ellen: The last part of Loritta Slayton’s story, “White Knuckles,” took me back to when my mother needed my help and our roles were reversed. God encouraged and enabled her to let go of hurt feelings and journey down the path to love.

Treva: In “Walking My Mother Home” Ardis Nelson wrote, “I was embracing the parts of my mother that were in me.” I am currently doing that now, so it really touched my heart.

Ardis: I think I was the most moved by Loritta’s story. I felt her pain with each decision she made along her journey with her mother. The ending to her story was a fitting ending to the book—very encouraging.

Loritta: The emotional process of their hurts being released to God and their journeys of walking it out with Him speak to me. I was moved by Treva’s descriptions of this process.

a pink butterfly  3. In what point in your relationship with your mother or child did you realize you needed relational healing?

Alice: My mother was always closer to me than any of her other children; I sensed her unhappiness and wanted to try to be there for her. Then in my early twenties I left home for the city to work. Transported into the world, I began to see not all the ways in my childhood home matched the ordinary way of going about life.

Catherine: The need in my heart became evident when I was going through grief over my mother’s death. As you can read in the book, the Lord has ways of healing our relationships even when separated by distance, disease or death.

Ellen: When I was a new Christian and learned how important it was to forgive others. Also at that time, the relationship with our mothers was a topic of discussion with my close friends, all of whom felt they had emotional gaps that their parents, especially their mothers, hadn’t filled.

Treva: Years after she died. It was a hard journey because I was unable to talk to my mom and hear her respond. But I wouldn’t change a thing, for that is where I truly encountered God.

Loritta: I knew most of my life that it wasn’t what it should be. But when I read A Daughter’s Journey Home, by Dr. Linda Mintle, some of the pieces of the puzzle came into focus. I began to pray about my relationship with my mother and ask God to work in us. And my journaling with God and the listening practice opened the door significantly.

4. What makes the mother/child relationship so significant? a pink butterfly

Ardis: I think the mother/child relationship is a mirror of the love our heavenly father has for us.

Kerry: I never realized until I had my own children, but at the end of the day, a mother’s love for a child is the strongest bond that exists.

Kyleen: I think that, since I wanted children and was unable to have them, it has made me appreciate what so many women take for granted. I envy the blessings of being pregnant, of giving birth, of seeing your features in your child’s face, of knowing they came from your body. But God has taught me that he is the maker of families, and I am blessed knowing that Jesus, too, was adopted (by Joseph). So my children are to me the very face of God. To me they represent all that he is – his goodness, kindness, and love.

5. What events, sensory experiences, etc., trigger your memories of a pink butterflyyour mother?

Catherine: My mother had a quip, saying, or song for every situation or occasion, it seemed. Those sayings and songs pop into my head often and remind me of her. I still “hear” her voice.

Ellen: Going to the farmer’s market, smelling apple pies baking … sewing, bringing flowers into the house … Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays.

Treva: A certain Dolly Parton song, camping and eating spaghetti. My mom loved spaghetti.

Ardis: This may sound strange, but I think I am most reminded of my mother in my writing and speaking opportunities. I feel that she would be proud of me for who I am finally becoming, and that gives me a great sense of her presence with me. In a way, this makes up for not having her there when I was young.

Loritta: She enjoyed flowers and colors in shades of purples, aquas, violets. Just this week I walked past orchids in the grocery store that are tinted in those tones and thought of her.

6. Do you ever see your mom in yourself?  a pink butterfly

Catherine: Every time I make the choice and the effort to be positive, to engage with other people when I feel like pulling away … I think of my mother who modeled those attitudes to me.

Ellen: Yes. She had an authoritative way of speaking. She would make pronouncements (not always based on facts), pontificate, and discourage discussion. I still find myself sounding like her, even though I’ve tried for years to overcome it. When I notice myself doing the same thing, it lets me know how ingrained her attitudes were/are in me. I feel frustrated that it’s still there inside my personality. Then I’m motivated to revisit my efforts to change and make it more of a priority to do so.

Treva: At times I do. I used to despise it. But God was able to bring me to a place of embracing those characteristics and bring me more understanding of my mom.

Verna Hill Simms: I remind myself of Mother every time I sit in the living room and watch for the mail carrier. Mail means a lot to me as it did to her.

Ardis: This question hits to the core area of my personal healing when my mother died. I was able to integrate and embrace the parts of my mother that I had been rejecting all my life. Thanks to the Lord’s work in me, I am no longer embarrassed by our similarities.

Kerry: Yes. I especially see my mom in myself when I’m faced with a tough challenge. My mom never gave up on anything and she leaned on her faith during the hardest times. When I’m going through a tough time, I think of mom and follow her example. Whenever I feel like life is a bit too hard, I remember my mom’s example and immediately feel stronger.

7. In what way is mother love a journey?   a pink butterfly

Alice: I wonder how God would have brought me along without children! I know there are people who do not have children and who have a deep relationship with God, but God knew I needed children!

Ellen: For me, mother love grew from an unrealistic ideal to a reality based on experience. Each stage of our children’s growth, from elementary school to junior high to high school has challenges of its own. As I journeyed along with my children, my love was tested, strengthened and developed through the ups and downs they experienced. My love grew from the tenderest feelings for our infants to caring for their needs while juggling other responsibilities, to tough love as they tested boundaries. Mother love survived the smooth and rocky places along the path because, I believe, it originates in God’s love for us all.

Ardis: I am seeing this theme poignantly in my life now. Just today I had a conversation with my 15 year old son about this. We had connecting time while attending a doctor’s appointment. I didn’t have any of that with my parents. I am embracing the journey of learning how to mother anew, be a “sister” to Rosa, an “aunt” to Pedro, and a daughter to my stepmother. This journey is connecting me with my heart and allowing me to share it with others.

Kerry: Mother love is a journey because life is a journey. There are ups and there are downs; there are moments of joy and moments of sheer pain; but through all of it, love is the foundation. My mom has progressed to the advanced-stage of Alzheimer’s and this is the final destination in our journey. Alzheimer’s is a heartbreaking disease, but I have peace knowing that at the end of my mom’s journey here on earth, she will be rewarded for her lifetime of love. faith, and determination–the gift of Heaven.

Loritta: You can’t understand everything from one vantage point. You have to climb that mountain and look back sometimes, and other times you just have to put your hand in God’s and let Him talk to you about what you need to know that only He can reveal in a way that you can receive.

Kyleen: Learning to love unconditionally, to bring out the best in your children, to be their cheerleader and to guide them with kindness is not always easy, especially when your own relationship with your mother was strained. Still, it is a noble and worthy endeavor. This is the journey God asks us to take as mothers.

All the authors and their stories

“I Forgive You”

07 Thursday Mar 2013

Posted by in childhood memories, confessing our need, forgiving mom, God's healing love, letting go of anger, the healing journey

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"Forgiveness 3" by Carlos Latuff.

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

In every close relationship we can get our feelings hurt. At those times—when we hurt each other in big and small ways—two little words make a huge difference: “I’m sorry.” Have you said “I’m sorry” recently to your best friend? to your spouse? to your child? to your parent?

Then a sweet, healing balm is applied to the wound when three simple but powerful words are spoken back: “I forgive you.”

Nine Women Tell their Stories of Forgiveness & Healing … That’s the subtitle of our book, and for good reason. Healing and forgiveness go together. In fact, I can confidently say that relational healing won’t happen without forgiveness.

Forgiveness is the turning point in all the stories in Journeys to Mother Love.

During this season of Lent, I am going to meditate on the forgiveness provided for me by Jesus on the cross. He forgave freely, unconditionally, forever. Jesus was mocked, misunderstood, abused, rejected. Yet he said, “Father, forgive them.”

He was despised and rejected … a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering…. Surely he took up our infirmities and carried our sorrows … and by his wounds we are healed (Isaiah 53: 3-6)

 
Stained glass at St John the Baptist's Anglica...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Can we not bring our offenses, hurts, and rejections to Jesus?

Because Jesus forgives, we must. Because he did, we can.

Forgive. Then live in a heart attitude of forgiveness. Slights, rejections, offenses will come—sometimes unexpectedly, catching us off-guard. I’m asking the Lord to help me recognize those feelings when they come, then help me give the offense and the feelings to Jesus immediately. He knows my thoughts and feelings already. I can simply let it go. In faith. With love. Because there are much bigger things at stake than my hurt feelings. Because it’s so much more important how the Lord sees me than how others see me. Because he gave his life and shed his precious blood so that forgiveness could happen. Because fellowship, relationship, wholeness are so important to the Lord and so wonderful to experience.

I realize some wounds are so deep we hardly know how to face them, how to deal with them, or even exactly what or who we need to forgive. Perhaps the other person is not saying “I’m sorry.” But our unforgiving spirit is causing us pain and keeping us from a life of joyful wholeness.

As a child I heard my preacher father give the sermon illustration of a festering boil, full of pus and painful to touch. Such a sore place causes misery and anguish until you are willing to have it lanced open and drained of the poisonous, pressuring pus. Or what about a person who had a broken arm that wasn’t set properly and grew together wrong, awkward and painful? It must be re-broken and set properly so it can knit together in harmony and heal, so the arm will move freely without pain.

I don’t want to let poisonous reactions, angry pressure, out-of-kilter attitudes, or pus-like resentment fester in my soul and cause anguish in my relationships.

Lord, give me the grace to say and mean, “I forgive you.”

~Catherine Lawton

Mother’s Chocolate Cake

21 Thursday Feb 2013

Posted by in childhood memories, leaving a legacy

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On Valentine’s I always think of chocolate. This year I’m making my mother’s favorite chocolate cake. It’s a treasured family tradition/recipe.

As a busy pastor’s wife Mother often found herself entertaining on the spur of the moment. Sometimes she needed to bake a quick dessert and she found she was out of cake mixes, eggs and/or shortening. That’s when she pulled out the old stand-by recipe for “Chocolate Mayonnaise Cake” passed down from her mother-in-law.

I still make this recipe and now my daughter does. It’s easy to mix in one bowl, always turns out moist, and is sure to please. Since I moved to the mile-high state of Colorado I’ve adjusted the sea-level recipe for high altitude. I’ll give the high-altitude measurements in parentheses:

Mother’s Chocolate Mayonnaise Cake
Grease cake pan(s). Heat oven to 375º. Mix all ingredients together in a bowl:
1¼ (1) cup sugar
2 cups flour
3 (4½) tablespoons Cocoa (I use more cocoa than my mother and grandmother did.)
2 (1¼) teaspoons soda
1 cup water
1 (1¼) cup real mayonnaise
1-2 teaspoon vanilla
Beat well then pour into one oblong pan or two layer pans and bake for 25 min (or until toothpick comes out clean).
Good with buttercream frosting. Sometimes we just dust it with powdered sugar.
 

Enjoy!

~ Catherine Lawton

Photo by Will Echols on Unsplash

MY BEST CHILDHOOD CHRISTMAS MEMORY

20 Thursday Dec 2012

Posted by in childhood memories, family gatherings, the healing journey

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(Painting of a snow scene by Monet)

“La pie – The magpie” by Monet

On that Christmas Eve, my little sister, six years younger than I, had been sent off to bed. She went gladly, since she thought Santa wouldn’t come until she was asleep. I wasn’t a bit jealous that I wouldn’t have sugar plums dancing in my head; I got to stay up and help bring the presents out of hiding and place them around the tree. My other two siblings, full-fledged teenagers, were watching Perry Como’s Christmas Special in the den.

Mother, Father and I did a good job of displaying the gifts and filling the stockings. “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” could be heard from the room down the hall.

“Are we going to get snow for Christmas?” I asked.

“They’re saying we might get a dusting,” Mom replied.

Soon my father, who had worked all day, retired for the night; and Mom returned to the kitchen to take care of a few last details for our traditional Christmas-morning breakfast. I hung around the tree, soaking in the magic of colored lights, cedar scent, gifts wrapped in Christmas motif paper and tied with ribbon that curled (as a result of being run along the blade of a pair of scissors).

(Curled Ribbon on a Present)

The evening began to draw to a close when Mom reappeared from around the dining room wall and asked, “I’m going to midnight church. Do you want to go?”

Since Mom did not drive, I knew going along meant walking a half mile in the cold. But, it didn’t seem right that she should go alone. “Sure,” I responded.

We pulled on boots and bundled up in as many layers as we could wear and still be able to walk. Then we headed out. The cold sky was starless and the moon fought to show itself, as a blanket of clouds moved across it. We trudged along with only the sparsely-placed light posts to illuminate our way. About half-way on our journey, snow began to fall. By the time we reached the church doors, the grass could still be seen, bristling through the new-fallen snow, but the sidewalks were only wet, since every flake dissolved upon impact. True to the weatherman’s word, we were getting a dusting.

(People walking in snow)

The church was warm, candle-lit, and filled with the sweet sounds of a choir that must have been as close as human beings can get to angelic hosts. By the time we emerged from the church, the landscape was completely transformed. The grass was covered over with three good inches and every tree branch was lined with white. The storm had come and gone, resulting in a starlit sky and a moon that no longer played second fiddle to the clouds. The dark and ill-defined landscape was illuminated, as if every neighbor had turned on their yard lights for us.

(Painting of people walking in the snow by Monet)

Mom and I walked down the long sidewalk and were about to cross the street, when a neighbor rolled down his car window and shouted, “Want a ride!?”

To my absolute amazement and total delight, Mom called back, “No, thank you!” Then she looked at me and smiled. I smiled back in response to her gift.

On that early Christmas morning, Mom and I walked home in the perfectly set stage of a winter wonderland; and I received a gift—my best childhood Christmas memory and my best memory with my mother.

~ A.R. Cecil

Imparting Christmas Traditions

12 Wednesday Dec 2012

Posted by in childhood memories, Learning to appreciate Mom, leaving a legacy, Parenting

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Handmade Christmas Ornaments

Photo: Ardis Nelson

For most of us, Christmastime is a season ripe with family traditions and nostalgia. Not for me, though. My parents didn’t impart most of the kinds of Christmas memories other people have. So when my kids were young, I made an effort to create Christmas traditions in our home. We’ve done the annual portraits for Christmas giving, photos with Santa, and we periodically indulge in baking cookies.

One of the traditions I tried to carry on from my husband’s childhood was the creation of handmade ornaments. We inherited a collection of beautiful beaded and sequined handmade ornaments that he and his mother made when he was growing up. When my sons were 18 months and five years old, I took them to a nearby ceramic studio and started the tradition of annual hand-painted ornaments. My oldest son gave up that tradition a few years ago, but hopefully my youngest son will humor me for his 15th year.

Handmade Christmas Ornaments

Photo: Ardis Nelson

We also started going to a tree farm to cut down a real tree for Christmas. Alas, that tradition didn’t stick. Then this year when the pre-lit Christmas tree was beyond repairing, I decided to give the real tree another try. With the help of a friend and her teenage son, my 15-year-old son and I trekked to a nearby tree farm and cut down a tree. (Only time will tell if this will be a new continuing tradition or just a treasured memory.)

The next day, my girlfriend returned to help decorate the tree. When I pulled out the angel to top the tree, that is when it hit me—the mom factor. The angel had been a gift from my mother! In that moment I saw my mother’s love for me anew.

That angel has graced my Christmas tree, fake or real, for many years. My mother hoarded things and had many financial problems over the years. She would shower me with gifts—despite my requests not to. Since my mother’s passing last year, this angel is now very precious to me—with its shimmering white linen and lace skirt, silver wings and porcelain face and hands. She sits on top of my tree as a symbol of the angels heralding Jesus birth—and of my mother’s love.

Angel on Christmas Tree

Photo: Ardis Nelson

Seeing that angel reminded me that my mother did instill a Christmas tradition in my life. She would make the holiday special by decorating our home. As a child I had helped my mother decorate the tree and house for the holidays. It was something I always looked forward to.

As my girlfriend and I unwrapped each ornament and hung it on the tree, she humored me as I recounted the story behind each one. When it came time to place the angel on the tree, it reminded me of how mothers shape the feelings, traditions, and memories of Christmas.

We can impart memories of the hustle and bustle of the season, or we can impart some life-giving nuggets that our children will treasure for years to come. Of course, Jesus is the reason for the season. That is first and foremost in what I want my children to remember about Christmas. In addition to that, though, as the pulse of  home life, mothers can shape how their children remember Christmas in other ways.

Consider the traditions and memories you are imparting to your children this holiday season. Be deliberate in what you want them to remember. Most of all be sure to decorate your celebration with the love of Christ!

~ Ardis A. Nelson

THREADS of LIFE: Expressions and Experiences

07 Friday Dec 2012

Posted by in childhood memories, generations coming together, Gratitude, leaving a legacy

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Mother and Daughter Sewing

Over the years, I’ve come to appreciate the value of connecting with people. The threads of the lives of others, running back and forth through the threads of our own lives, serve to create a fabric of strength and elasticity.

One such experience was set in place when, as a child, I signed up to be a member of the 4-H club. Then I realized joining meant participating, which meant I needed to select a project from one of the categories. For me, the choices narrowed down to cooking or sewing. I chose sewing since the idea of new clothes appealed to me. Immediately, though, some obstacles became apparent. My mother did not sew and, therefore, our family did not own a sewing machine. Minor details, like not having an instructor or the means, never entered my mind when I checked the little box by the word “sewing” on the 4-H application.sewing at the dining room table

My mother could have reprimanded me by asking, “What were you thinking!?” But, instead, she said, “There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

(My mother colored her speech with expressions. “Every dog has his day,” “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” and “A rolling stone gathers no moss” are but a few of the many gems that gave me a love for words and became one of the tools that I use in my fondness for writing.)

The cat was skinned with an idea my mother had: I could sew at my aunt’s house on Sunday afternoons. This aunt never married, so her life and home were open to invasion from her pubescent niece. My aunt blossomed in the experience. I’d show up to find she had purchased yards of fabric: three yards of tiny blue and pink daisies on a cream field, four yards of bright green and bold peach flowers on a soft green background, two yards each of blue, yellow and lilac. My aunt’s house became my fabric store. I was seriously okay with her selections. I could tell she was having fun and the idea of sewing was already beginning to settle into my spirit, even as it was declaring: “This is not a fit for you.” But, I was committed to the club and now I was committed to my aunt.

pretty fabric

I sewed, and then ripped out what I had sewn with an intriguing little instrument called a seam ripper. Finally, in order to move the project forward, my aunt said, “Well, maybe it’s good enough.” Under these agonizing circumstances we “whipped out” an apron when I was ten years old, a skirt when I was eleven, and a blouse when I was twelve. The apron, like those potholders made of loops, endured in the family for decades. The skirt and blouse were worn once or twice, and then I conveniently outgrew them.

I remember the last day of our three-year run. It was a Sunday in April and my aunt’s green walls were being painted gray by the late afternoon’s pink sun. My aunt turned off the sewing machine and turned to me. “Let’s go get a cookie to celebrate all you have achieved,” she declared.

What had I achieved? One apron, one skirt, one blouse, but, more important, I had connected with a dear aunt and with the club, as my projects won third, second and honorable mention ribbons.

I am thankful for the connection I have had with my mother through her expressions that live on as part of a colorful tapestry in the fabric of my life.

~ A.R. Cecil