When We We Were Ten, An Heirloom

     

This is an essay I wrote for a writing contest through the Foothills Writer's Guild. I'm posting it today in honor of my mom on Mother's Day. I hope she knows how much she's been missed through the years. I carry her memory with me through words and photos.

When We Were Ten, An Heirloom

By Cindy O'Brien

     Family pictures are the connection between generations. They tell a story without words, a story of love and loss, pain and sorrow, and remind us of the significance of certain events. No two stories are the same because every family has its own unique way of living. However, every family has its share of tragedy and triumph. The pictures we pass down from one generation to the next tell our story.

     While sitting at my writing desk, my eyes wander to the pictures on the shelf above me. Various family photos stare back at me, faces of those long gone haunt me. I want to know their stories; the ones lived in private. What were the dreams that went unfulfilled, the family secrets never shared? What did a typical Monday morning feel like, and what were the sorrows that kept them awake through the night? Time and life circumstances intervened and questions went unanswered.

Cindy - 10 Yrs. Old - 4th Grade

     Two little girls, ten or eleven years old, sit in separate frames on my shelf. I recognize the girl on the right. I remember the day the picture was made when I was in the fourth grade. Were my bangs long enough to put behind my ear, or would the photo capture the tooth I broke while twirling around the seesaw bar? 

     The girl on the left is a mystery, though I know her name, and shared a home with her. She taught me how to sew, and how to care for a home and family. She taught me about faith and perseverance, and yet so much was unspoken.

     If I could reach into the photo of my ten-year-old self, I’d take her face in my hands, and make her look into my eyes. I’d tell her to be curious, speak up, and ask the hard questions. She was such a timid little girl. Most of the time, the book in her hands diverted any attention to those around her, except maybe her beloved cat, Boots. The world she lived in was quiet and structured. I want to tell her not to be so critical of herself. Her fifty-something future self is still dragging that burden. I’d tell her to enjoy reading, but lay the book aside and find something to laugh about.

Juanita - 10 or 11 Yrs Old

     The picture sitting next to my ten-year-old self is more precious to me than diamonds or gold. My mother, hair in pigtails, freckle faced, and almost smiling, rests a few inches from my own freckled face. The resemblance catches my breath every time I look at her. What did that little girl do for fun? Did she have girlfriends? Did she like to read like me? Her childhood was saddled with The Great Depression and World War II. Did those events affect her everyday life? Did she enjoy the simplicity of the early fifties as a teenager? What were her dreams as she stood on the edge of freedom? Photos reveal a young woman at the cusp of everything good and hopeful. That woman beckons me to know her. But, as sand through an hourglass, that time is gone forever. 

     Her life was cut short by cancer at thirty-eight years of age. The memory of the two of us, heads together, comparing our ten-year-old selves would never find a place in my history. We passed in and out of each other’s lives for a few short years. I carry her DNA, her voice, hands and feet, and yet she is unknown to me. 

     The ache of missing her has lessened with the passing of time and years of counseling. There will always be a mother-sized hole in my heart that no one else can fill, though I’ve tried. I’m left with a photo, an heirloom, a reminder of little girls who grew out of their freckles, and for a fleeting moment, shared a love that will never die.

Happy Mother's Day to all the women who've poured themselves into my life. You know who you are and I love you! It takes a Godly village to raise a child, and my God has been faithful to place wonderful women who have loved and mentored me.

As a side note, this piece won 1st Place in a non-fiction category in the Spring 2018 Foothills Writer's Guild contest.

A Birthday to Remember, But No Tears This Year

She would've been 80 years old today; my mother, the woman who gave birth to me, nurtured and molded me, and then died when I was fifteen years of age, and she, 38. She lives forever young in my mind.

Her eyes never aged to wear glasses and her hair, when she had it, had only a few gray streaks. It didn't glisten white like that of her beautiful sisters; though I can imagine what she would've looked like because of them. She was never mother-of-the-bride, and therefore, never held a grand baby. She never celebrated a silver wedding anniversary or felt the emptiness of her children leaving the nest.

But, her days were fulfilled as God planned them. Her life was complete in His eyes.

Memories are an interesting thing. They occupy a considerable part of the brain. They hold court in your mind anytime they see fit. Memories can be a source of joy, as well as pain, depending on your state of mind and life experiences.

Mom and me circa 1963

The memories I have of my mom have grayed with time. The same ones make their appearance as predictable as the changing of the seasons. Different stages of my life renew the fervor to retain the pictures in my mind, the voice, the body language, and unfortunately, the pain.

When I was a little girl in first grade, one of the most vivid memories I have was about a dress–and me not wanting to wear the dress. I left the house to walk a short distance to the bus stop. About half way down the street I stopped, eyes full of tears spilling down my cheeks, and turned to look back at my house. She was standing in the doorway. I can see her clearly in plaid bermuda shorts and matching blouse. I was close enough to hear her yell, "Cindy Jean, you get on down to the bus stop or I'm gonna spank you."

The rest of the story is a blur, but I don't remember a spanking so I must have obeyed. My dislike with some clothing was real or maybe it was a control issue. I was, and am, particular with the way clothes fit and feel. It can be a curse when looking for a specific item.

I've since learned I'm a Highly Sensitive Person (HSP). Much has been written on this kind of personality trait, and I qualify without a doubt. It reaches into sounds, surroundings, and emotions, as well as physical. I don't think Mom cared much about my sensitivities that morning. I'm sure she didn't want me to miss the bus.

She had breast cancer so a lot of my memories involve hospitals and doctor offices, meds and recuperation. But in the midst of all she went through, I remember her smile and her belief that God was in control and she would be fine. I was naive and had no idea of the seriousness of her illness. I was five years old at the time of her diagnosis and they didn't give any details. All I knew was that we spent a lot of time in Charleston at the hospital, expecting her to come to the waiting room to see us.

Times were different in the late sixties and seventies. Facebook didn't exist so there was no sharing of her illness, no requests for prayer or support for family put out to 500 of my closest friends. Families were much more private and mine leaned toward a lock down on details shared. The only time I heard about it was on Wednesday night at church when her name was called aloud during prayer time.

She was brave and strong and it never occurred to me her days were finite. Her strength came from the God she loved. She put Him first in all she did.

Vacation in Washington D.C circa 1971

I never want to forget the sound of her voice, the laughter beyond the pain, or the way she loved her family. I want to remember her love of Loretta Lynn and Conway Twitty, and the way she would sing along to all their albums. She knew Every. Single. Word. And because she listened, so did I, and still do. I visited Loretta's home place in Butcher Holler while on a mission trip in Kentucky, and cried all the way through.

At times, I'd like to forget the arguments we had, the struggle she faced every day to walk, the pain and sorrow in her eyes, and the sight of my dad after she died. But those memories tell the complete story of who she was, and who I am. I don't ever want to forget the joy she brought to others, and the stability she gave to our home.

I spent many years of my life weighed down with unresolved grief. Children who suffered from the loss of a parent were often overlooked in that era. Hospice didn't exist and the needs of children were not met with intention as they are today. A memory would interrupt my thoughts regularly to remind me of all I'd lost. Other life experiences compounded my inability to grieve.

I'm thankful to share after forty years since her death, my demons have been laid to rest. My dreams are no longer the stage where she returned for a curtain call night after night. The tears upon hearing her name have dried to a trickle. For these things, I thank God. In His faithfulness, He brought me to a place of grief and acceptance. He held me closely as I relived the memories and put them in the proper place. Grieving allowed me permission to finally lay her to rest.

This year, I'll quietly celebrate her life, her influence and her legacy...through my memories.

If you've lost someone you love, keep your memories alive. Talk about your loss, share your stories, and don't forget to grieve. Don't waste precious time in the pit of loneliness and unresolved grief. Allow Jesus to mend your heart and restore your joy.

Jehovah Rapha, the Lord who Heals, promises to bring healing; even if it's forty years in the process.

Cindy

I Wonder What Her Dreams Were?

Mother's Day. The day set aside on our calendar to honor the women in our lives who love us like no other. She may, or may not be related, that matters not. The most important thing is that she know how you feel about her.

This is my favorite secular holiday and yet, I have bittersweet memories intertwined with this special day.

Juanita Bailey Goff-my mom 1947

My mom died in December of 1974 and every Mother's Day since that time, there is an ache that doesn't go away. There is an emptiness that she alone could fill.

In the pictures I've shared in this post, we're about the same age. The photo of Mom was taken in 1947. She was about eleven years of age. I was in the fifth grade at Danville Grade School. I was probably ten years old at the time of this picture.

Me - Circa 1969

As I look into the face of the girl who would become my mom, I wonder what her dreams were? What did she want to be when she grew up? Did she love dolls as much as I did? Did she love to play house like I did? Was she as independent as I am? I think I can answer that one…she moved to Washington D.C. upon her high school graduation and worked for the F.B.I.

When I think about her life to come, she had no idea that in ten short years my dad would sweep her off her feet in August and marry her in November. I wonder if she dreamed of a storybook romance? It happened for her.

I wonder if she ever thought about being a mommy? She had the best mom. She was loving, kind, nurturing, humble. She had the most beautiful porcelain skin, soft and supple. And she loved Jesus.

She had no idea, when she was eleven years old, that cancer would invade her body, and shorten her life. But I'm sure she had dreams.

My favorite thing then…my favorite thing now

I do know one of her greatest wishes though.  It's a prayer from her grown-up self.

I was reminded this morning as I was reading from Jesus Calling. This happens all the time. I'll write something, and the next day I get confirmation on what I wrote. It happened again with this post.

My mom's favorite verse was Philippians 4:13: "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." When I read it this morning, I was reminded of her strength and her faith.

My dad told me, after she died, that they prayed together every night before they went to sleep. He said she prayed every night she would live long enough to see me get old enough to take care of my brother and our house. I'm sure it took all the strength God could give her to pray that prayer. What mother wants to leave her children? But she was asking the God she knew to be faithful to her, to give her this request. And He did.

The last few years of her life were difficult. It would have been easier to give up and go on to Jesus. She suffered for us. Her eleven year old self could never have imagined the pain she would eventually go through. We're not meant to know the future.

Circa - 1964

Our lives were different, hers and mine. I've had the joy of watching my children grow up; something she didn't get to experience. I've lived a healthy life, free of pain. I've been able to enjoy lunches with friends, vacations with family, traveling all over the world. I've been to the place she would have loved to go the most, Loretta Lynn's, Butcher Holler. She adored Loretta, had every album she ever made, and I knew every word of every song, still do to this day.

Her granddaughter, and namesake, Bailey, has been swept off her feet by her prince charming. We're planning a wedding together; something my mom and I didn't get to do.

But, I can't complain because I've been taught more through her death about the faithfulness of God. I've never understood why she had to die so young, but I finally stopped asking "why." Some things in life are a mystery and we're to accept them based on the sovereignty of God.

I'm there now. It was time to let go.

I'm thankful for glimpses of her in the mirror and in family members. I love pictures. I can be found wrapped up in albums, tears spilling down my cheeks. My children know the drill and I hear an, "Oh Mom, don't cry."

A wedding is coming up…Her legacy lives on in my children because of His faithfulness.

When little girls dream…

Happy Mother's Day
Cindy