In my childhood home our sofa was dark green. It had two throw pillows on either end & they sat precisely at 45 degree angles with the bottom of the seat. There was a mirror with little side shelves on it that hung above the sofa. Each spring my mom would move the couch from one wall to another to allow room for the front door to be opened delivering a cool breeze during the warmer months. The mirror still hung above it with the same knick knacks on the same shelves and the pillows remained in their given places. As soon as colder weather approached the sofa switched walls again – and so it was for the entire seventeen years I lived there.
The floor covering in our kitchen came with the house and the throw rugs always lay in the same places, moved only on Thursdays when they were shaken free of dirt on house cleaning day.
We went to “town” on Fridays. This was the only day of the week we ventured far from home except for the necessary trips to school, or the occasional doctor or dentist appointment. On Fridays banking was done, groceries and gas were purchased, my mom went to the beauty shop and we took piano lessons.
We went to church every Sunday just down the gravel road from our house. Mom played the piano. Dad taught Sunday school. We sang two songs before the lesson and two songs after. My sister and I rode in the back of the car – each on our “own” side that we somehow decided was reserved for us. This tradition continued until I was in Junior High School, at which point the little church shut its doors from lack of attendance. We never missed a Sunday, but drove five minutes in the opposite direction from our house instead and continued our Sunday morning tradition for the rest of my high school years at a different little country church.
My dad left for work around 5am each morning and returned home around 6pm each night. Supper was always ready and we would eat by 6:30 on most evenings. Dad would read the newspaper and watch a little bit of television. Mom would clean up the kitchen and my sister and I would get ready for bed. Mom made us breakfast every morning and usually had a homemade snack waiting for us when we got home from school. She didn’t work outside the home until I was in seventh grade when she began baby-sitting and house-keeping part time for a local family. Even then she was home with us each day when we came home.
When I was around twelve years old, Mom and Dad decided to finish out the attic and convert it into a master bedroom. This was a huge decision and didn’t come without it’s share of tears and apprehension. It was the only significant change I can remember from my childhood until January of 1987.
I guess you could say that my childhood was pretty stable. It was free of any upheaval, conflict or fear. I knew my parents loved each other and I never once worried that they would divorce. We weren’t wealthy, but all my needs were met. I knew what was expected of me and I knew the consequences if I didn’t meet those expectations. I always felt safe.
But then came the day – or evening in January. Mom had a doctor’s appointment. Dad went with her, and that was very strange. They were late coming home, and when they did the news wasn’t good. Mom had been diagnosed with inflammatory breast cancer and given 3 months to live. I can still remember my dad standing in the kitchen doorway telling us. He looked so stunned and calm and I recall realizing that I hadn’t ever really looked him in the eyes that closely before. He didn’t know what to say to us or how to comfort us and so our Pastor at the time came and prayed with us. I don’t remember much else about that night, except that it didn’t seem real at all. I think I thought it couldn’t be because things like that didn’t happen to us – to me.
The following months are thankfully a blur. Mom underwent intensive chemotherapy and the week of Easter her breast was removed. The chemo continued after that throughout the summer months. Some things do remain vivid in my memory. I remember the home health care nurse showing me how to remove the needle that was shooting the poison into her veins – to kill the cancer cells of course. But that same poison killed her good cells too and caused her hair to fall out. That day was one of the worst. My humble mom, who didn’t have a vain bone in her body, crawled between her bed and the wall and sobbed. And there wasn’t anything I could do to help her. So during the early morning hours of the treatments I would go upstairs and remove the needle the way I was shown. And then I would help her to the bathroom so she could vomit for the next few hours. I would bring her Sprite and crackers and wipe her forehead with a cold wash cloth like she did for me when I had the simple stomach flu, and I would pretend that that was all she had too. I would try to talk about the weather and other random stuff to take her mind off things. We never talked about the fact that she was dying.
The clearest memory I have of that time is the hardest. I was awakened by the oddest sound. It took me a minute to realize that it was the sound of my mom groaning & crying. She was in extreme agony and was sitting bent over in a fetal position on the stairway that led to that little attic bedroom. My dad was upstairs packing a bag for her so he could take her to the hospital. My sister & I sat on the stairs with her and cried. Dad took her away and she never came back to that house.
This was my first real encounter with change. The stability I had felt suddenly seemed like a cruel joke. I felt like I had been conned. My dad remarried less than six months later. He sold our home and we moved to a neighboring town. My sister moved in with my grandmother instead and so I was left living with my dad, his wife and her daughter – all three strangers to me. There was NO stability during this time. There were no expectations and there were no consequences. I literally did not know what each day would bring. I lived in fear and unbearable sadness.
My relationship with God at this point was virtually non-existent. I knew all about Him, but didn’t know Him, and quite frankly – I didn’t like Him all that much either. I was angry and bitter and confused.
Looking back now I see the irony of my childhood. The stability that my mom worked so hard to give us was the very thing that drove a wedge between God & me. I was so focused on the things I never thought would change that I was unable to see the One who never will.
But as much as my earthly mother loved me, my Heavenly Father loved me even more, and so He began the long process of getting my attention…
A couple of days ago I saw a Facebook status that made my heart hurt. One of the girls from my high school graduating class posted that she had just found out her job of 15 years was being eliminated and now she needed to decide what she wants to be when she grows up. I could relate so well & there were a billion things I wanted to say to her – but I said nothing.