It’s been over 2 months since my Mom announced that she was in love. WHAT?? Sam and I walked into the dining room at the nursing home on a Saturday evening and found Mom, not at her normal table, but sitting across the room with a man. We sat with them while they ate and he told us how Mom’s smile had given him such joy and how she had made him want to fight the lung cancer that was destroying him. Something that I should have clued in on and didn’t…he said that there had been another woman that he had enjoyed spending time with and eating meals with but she had gone “home” from the facility. He missed her dreadfully and had tried to call her to keep in touch but to no avail. But, here was my Mom, smiling and friendly and ready to have a friend.
Three days later they were talking about how much they were in love and wanted to get married. They were holding hands and he was stealing kisses.
A short time after Dad passed away, I was told of this man who was coming there to live who was a retired minister. He was hoping to be able to start a Bible study there and it was thought that this might make for a good friendship as they had ministry backgrounds in common. For months they didn’t meet but now the time had come and ever since that time it has been an emotional roller coaster both for Mom and for me (and the rest of us who are close to this situation.)
At first it was both comical and sweet…this relationship seemed to bring a spring to Mom’s step and a bounce to his wheelchair and sparkles in their eyes. As a family, we thought, great, it’s good for her to have someone to share things with, to talk to and to enjoy a special friendship. Some of Mom’s physical responses to his attentiveness were appalling though, knowing Mom as I have, and realizing that if she were clear-minded, this wouldn’t be happening. It became apparent that her years of being happily married were driving her behavior – she was comfortable because this was what she was used to.
I must admit, though, that the Sunday after their first Bible study together in the nursing home, when she was relating to us about how wonderful it had been, saying, “oh, honey, I wish you could have been there to hear him! I hate to say it, but I think that he is much deeper than your Dad was” – I almost came unglued inside. Sam told me later that he knew I must have been very hurt by that comment and that I probably was biting my tongue. (He knows me so well). Although I was astounded by this comment, I also realized that this was NOT my real Mom speaking but the woman whose incredible mind had been sabotaged by dementia. She’d known this man all of about a week, maybe two when she made this “incredible” discovery of his great “depth”.
The psychologist on staff there told me that I must understand that they are like 13 year olds and I must be careful not to object to this as I would push them closer together. I said, “this is NOT my mother” and he replied, “no, she is your 13 y/o daughter”. (And I said to myself, “my 13 y/o daughter never acted like this). ☺ Therefore, I would tell her that I was glad that she had such a special friend and that having a friend was good and that there wasn’t anything wrong with friendship that meant so much. (Get the recurring “friend” word?) One day the hairdresser in the facility told me that Mom had told her that she was giving her kids a new daddy and they were just going to have to get used to it.
After a few weeks I noticed that Mom seemed very worn out all the time and the spring in her step wasn’t so springy and she seemed depressed. (I was increasingly unhappy with this relationship as there were many indications that this man was becoming quite controlling and bossy and Mom is very much one who never wants to hurt anyone’s feelings and will go along with things often to avoid that.) One day when I arrived for a visit I found the two of them walking/wheeling in the hallway and we went to Mom’s room to visit. As I tried to ask Mom questions, he kept butting in and talking and Mom never had much of a chance to say anything to me and I wanted to throttle him. He dominated the conversation and I discovered a lot of things (through his talking) that made me even more uncomfortable about this relationship. Like the fact that he had been married 4 times, two of which ended somewhat violently. Oh, did I mention that he has lung cancer from smoking for 40 years and he gave up chewing tobacco for her?
Some of the things that he was saying made Mom’s eyes pop a little but otherwise she said very little. I left that day feeling quite discouraged and frustrated and wondering what was the right thing to do. Two days later I decided to take her to lunch to get her out of the facility and somewhere that we could talk uninterrupted. While we were out I asked her what she saw in this man. I said that he was so different from Daddy. I also told her that I had noticed that she didn’t seem so happy anymore. She started to cry and told me that she had been thinking a lot about Daddy lately and that she wasn’t happy and that she felt like she was being bossed around but that she didn’t know how to get out of it. I assured her that she wasn’t alone and that if this was what she wanted, I would help her break it off, as would the staff. When we arrived back at the nursing home we stopped at the office of a staff member to talk and I asked Mom to tell her what she wanted us to do and she told her “I want help to get away from this bossy man”.
She seemed incredibly relieved and for many days their paths didn’t cross. He became very depressed and refused to go to his chemo treatments. One well-meaning staff member, who obviously wasn’t aware that they were not together, went to get Mom to see if she could convince him to go. Later that night I got a phone call from Mom to tell me that she had met someone new and that she was so very happy and was in love. I called the nursing desk to inquire as to who this new man was. She had no idea as no one had seen her talking to anyone new. That visit to his room must have reminded her of the “nice” man from the beginning of the relationship.
The next day, after doing some good sleuthing, my niece Sherri and I discovered that she had to be talking about man #1. She couldn’t tell us his name, said it wasn’t the first one, when we said his name and told us she couldn’t remember his name because she always called him honey. She told us that he was a preacher, etc., etc., and everything was what we knew about the first one. She was convinced for a couple of weeks that there were two different men…a nice spiritual one and a bossy, controlling one and she began spending time again with the nice one.
All this time I am being told, with great assurance , that Mom’s “friend” is of sound mind (as well as being 12 years younger). Therefore, we were getting concerned for her, as she is definitely not. As a family, we were concerned for her safety, the possibility of her being taken advantage of and she wouldn’t remember. We addressed those concerns with the staff and we jointly decided to place some guidelines and boundaries. We told him that she was NOT his girlfriend and they would have to be just really good friends. They could NOT kiss. At this point Mom looked up with an incredulous look on her face and said, “I don’t think that we have ever kissed” to which he responded with a shocked expression. We (the social worker and myself) told him THAT was why he couldn’t kiss her. He agreed to the boundaries because he wanted to still be able to see her. She just wanted to be able to continue to Bible studies with him and she told me that if just one person came to the Lord that would be important. I told him that she was drawn to the spiritual part of him and she wanted to be a part of that with him. The fact that we were even able to have this conversation with her in attendance testifies to the fact that she has serious clarity of mind issues.
Since that conversation we have bounced from wanting nothing to do with him to loving him and talking of marriage and being disgusted and worn out by him and back to warm regards. It has been, as I said, an emotional roller coaster both for her and for me.
I read a comment today by someone talking about the wonderful mother who raised her who is now a confused person in the grips of dementia. She spoke of how hard it was to watch and realize that this was no longer that same person who raised her. In other writings on my blog I have written of grieving for my mother. While her body is still here, her mind is often not. There are definitely times when I can enjoy her company and almost believe that she is still here. Several weeks ago I found myself, on a couple of different occasions, wanting to pick up the phone and call my Mom in Maryland to talk to her about my Mom in the nursing home. (My Mom in Maryland hasn’t been there for 8 ½ years.) A very strange experience!
On Valentine’s Day, we read to Mom love letters from Dad that he had given to her in the last years of his life. Beautiful, heartfelt, promises to love her for eternity. I’m so thankful that he is not here to see what’s happening. It would break his heart. She still loves him so much but in her confusion she is playing it out at times in her mind with another.
Last week, after having been frustrated with him, she called to tell me how in love she was and she was talking of marriage again. Knowing that her concept of time is very limited, I reminded her that Daddy hadn’t been gone that long and that it was often advised to not make any serious decisions too soon after losing someone who had been such a vital part of your life. She responded that she remembered hearing that before and it was wise counsel. By the end of the week she was trying to get away from him again by hiding in her room because she didn’t want to hear all the stuff he was telling her about himself.
I have a cousin who says quite frequently, “you gotta laugh or you’ll cry” and that is what I try to do – laugh, that is. We try to find the humor in the situation. There are many days that I feel like a red rubber ball bouncing along or maybe a ping-pong ball pinging back and forth across the net.
There are times, like right now, when I feel like I should have some sort of wonderful spiritual application in all of this and I am just not finding it. It’s like my spiritual side is hiding underneath a pile of wheelchairs, walkers and Depends. I know God is here, I know that He loves me and adores my mother. I know that He is using her as she continues to shine Jesus to the people who care for her and people she lives among. And I know that God made a way for her to be where she is as hard as it has been for me at times to rest in that. I also know that emotionally, these past few months have been quite challenging as I struggle to find my own way while I strive to protect and watch over my mother.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Grandma Lois's Notebook
This morning I leafed through the entire notebook. With a lump in my throat through much of my reading and perusing, I discovered that the poems and writings followed a pattern of sorts. At the beginning were many things pertaining to children. (Her children, my Mom and Uncle, were very young at that time.) As time progressed there were writings of romance, then death, then loving others. At one point there were writings pertaining to loving and caring for others regardless of skin color and status. Many of the writings pertained to being a good example and meeting the needs of those around you. One could almost imagine what was going on in her life at the time. Liberally sprinkled throughout were writings of faith in God and trust in His care for all of life's needs. The one I share with you today is written by her mother, copied by my Grandma' beautiful penmanship, sometime during the year before she passed away.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Since I was very young, I have collected poems and sayings that have touched me in some way. Recently, while cleaning out my desk to make way for some crafting that I want to do, I discovered a booklet of sayings that I have had since I was in high school and in between the pages I found most of them.
While going through my mother's files the other day, I discovered a
notebook of my Grandmother's that was filled with page after page of poetry and sayings and her own writings that moved her in a similar fashion. ( I guess it's in the genes.) Anyway, I am going to begin to share some of these.
My maternal grandmother, Lois, was 12 years of age when she was adopted by a childless couple in an adoption arranged by her mother who would soon die from the complications of tuberculosis. Her father had already died a year earlier.
When I discovered the notebook of hers that is full of poems cut out and pasted onto lined paper, I found, in a blank space on one page, a line, handwritten by Grandma that simply states:
An adopted child who has found a good home has been smiled upon by God.
And then, for the fun of it, and for my children, nieces and nephews who either have a two year old or will have a two year old, I offer this poem from the next page in her book.
TWO YEAR OLD
He finds a pencil and marks on the walls,
He climbs on the piano, and then he falls.
He eats the garbage and plays in the ink,
He spills the milk he declines to drink.
He crawls in the coalbin and plays it's bed.
He refuses to bathe and cries instead.
In short, he wishes to do what he wishes,
He breaks your heart as well as your dishes.
But all is forgiven, all is bliss,
When he comes and gives you a large wet kiss.
by Nancy Moor Kelsey
While going through my mother's files the other day, I discovered a
notebook of my Grandmother's that was filled with page after page of poetry and sayings and her own writings that moved her in a similar fashion. ( I guess it's in the genes.) Anyway, I am going to begin to share some of these.
My maternal grandmother, Lois, was 12 years of age when she was adopted by a childless couple in an adoption arranged by her mother who would soon die from the complications of tuberculosis. Her father had already died a year earlier.
When I discovered the notebook of hers that is full of poems cut out and pasted onto lined paper, I found, in a blank space on one page, a line, handwritten by Grandma that simply states:
An adopted child who has found a good home has been smiled upon by God.
And then, for the fun of it, and for my children, nieces and nephews who either have a two year old or will have a two year old, I offer this poem from the next page in her book.
TWO YEAR OLD
He finds a pencil and marks on the walls,
He climbs on the piano, and then he falls.
He eats the garbage and plays in the ink,
He spills the milk he declines to drink.
He crawls in the coalbin and plays it's bed.
He refuses to bathe and cries instead.
In short, he wishes to do what he wishes,
He breaks your heart as well as your dishes.
But all is forgiven, all is bliss,
When he comes and gives you a large wet kiss.
by Nancy Moor Kelsey
Friday, February 5, 2010
Hospice Revisited
In November, four months after my Dad passed away, I had to go to the Social Security office to take care of some business for Mom. The office is in Jacksonville and I had to pass the turn for the hospice facility where Dad spent his final days.
Several weeks after Dad’s death Sam and I had gone to eat at a restaurant in Jacksonville and on our way home had taken the route that put us very close to the hospice facility. As we passed the turn-off, I had a fleeting thought that we should stop and visit Dad. There was something inside of me that felt like Dad was still there. Of course, I knew this was irrational, but it was there just the same.
So here I was, a couple of months later, sitting and waiting at the red light of the street that one would turn on to go to the Hadlow Center, and sobbing! I had been thinking that maybe I should plan a visit to the facility to prove to myself that Dad was no longer there. Realizing the depth of emotion that I was dealing with at that moment, I KNEW that I needed to go. But first, I would finish my business at the Social Security office.
When I pulled into the parking lot, I prayed that God would send me to someone who would be kind, compassionate and knowledgeable. It’s “funny” how God seems to do His own thing and not follow my directions. I got called up to a desk where some folks had just left muttering and complaining and acting as if “the system” had just failed them. When I explained to the employee about my need and what was necessary to accomplish at this visit, she responded as if I were the enemy. I asked her to please not yell at me and she replied forcefully, “I’m NOT yelling at you”. At this point I began to choke back sobs and wish for a hole to crawl into. I was in no good emotional shape for this encounter! To top things off, she was confused about what was going on and needed another employee to come and help her figure things out. Slowly, she began to thaw out and I’m sure that the choked sobs were getting to her a bit. Finally, accomplishing what I needed to accomplish, I left the building.
Sitting in my car for the next several minutes, I allowed the choked sobs to become full-fledged. I was a mess! When I could finally control myself enough to drive, I headed home and back past the turn for the hospice center. This time I turned. I had to. It was time and it was important for me to be able to move on.
I walked in and stopped at the welcome desk where anyone entering must sign in. Trying very hard to keep control, I explained that my father had passed away here about 4 months ago and that I really needed to go into the chapel. They were very kind, had me get my name tag and allowed me to walk on in.
It wasn’t clear to me what I was going to do, but it was clear that I had to do it. (That’s about a clear as mud, isn’t it?)
When I turned the corner to walk down the first hall, if felt as if I was going to pass out. There was a weight on my head that seemed to push me into the floor and as I walked I felt as if I were on a ship that was tossing and turning in the sea. It was a very overwhelming sensation. Of course, I am back to sobbing.
Down the halls I continued until I arrived at the chapel. No one else was in the room and I was able to cry in peace. Peace. Did I say peace? No peace yet. Just agony! I prayed and cried and prayed some more. The interesting thing is, after stopping at the front desk, no one spoke to me or even seemed to notice me.
When I was able to leave the chapel, I proceeded to the family room area where we had spent many hours making phone calls, eating and just taking a break for a little while. The nurse’s station is right outside of this room and the doctor who had admitted Dad was at the desk. He was talking to a couple of nurses and none of them seemed to notice me for which I was thankful. I walked around the family room, soaking in the memories, got a tissue to wipe up the tears and runny nose and then left.
As I walked down the hall to leave a realization hit me. This time, as I left, I was grieving my father as a little girl who lost her Daddy. The last time I left the building, I was grieving as the daughter/caretaker who had responsibilities to complete. The overwhelming feeling that I had experienced upon my arrival was as if I were grieving the loss of a beloved person for the first time. I cried more that day than I had in months but it was very cathartic! Emotionally, I was drained, exhausted and wrung out. But it was all part of the healing that was needed to help me move on to the next phase.
I was blessed beyond measure to be the daughter of H. John Blann. His legacy to his family lives on. He was a great example of consistency in his walk with God and his love for others. I want to follow in his footsteps.
Several weeks after Dad’s death Sam and I had gone to eat at a restaurant in Jacksonville and on our way home had taken the route that put us very close to the hospice facility. As we passed the turn-off, I had a fleeting thought that we should stop and visit Dad. There was something inside of me that felt like Dad was still there. Of course, I knew this was irrational, but it was there just the same.
So here I was, a couple of months later, sitting and waiting at the red light of the street that one would turn on to go to the Hadlow Center, and sobbing! I had been thinking that maybe I should plan a visit to the facility to prove to myself that Dad was no longer there. Realizing the depth of emotion that I was dealing with at that moment, I KNEW that I needed to go. But first, I would finish my business at the Social Security office.
When I pulled into the parking lot, I prayed that God would send me to someone who would be kind, compassionate and knowledgeable. It’s “funny” how God seems to do His own thing and not follow my directions. I got called up to a desk where some folks had just left muttering and complaining and acting as if “the system” had just failed them. When I explained to the employee about my need and what was necessary to accomplish at this visit, she responded as if I were the enemy. I asked her to please not yell at me and she replied forcefully, “I’m NOT yelling at you”. At this point I began to choke back sobs and wish for a hole to crawl into. I was in no good emotional shape for this encounter! To top things off, she was confused about what was going on and needed another employee to come and help her figure things out. Slowly, she began to thaw out and I’m sure that the choked sobs were getting to her a bit. Finally, accomplishing what I needed to accomplish, I left the building.
Sitting in my car for the next several minutes, I allowed the choked sobs to become full-fledged. I was a mess! When I could finally control myself enough to drive, I headed home and back past the turn for the hospice center. This time I turned. I had to. It was time and it was important for me to be able to move on.
I walked in and stopped at the welcome desk where anyone entering must sign in. Trying very hard to keep control, I explained that my father had passed away here about 4 months ago and that I really needed to go into the chapel. They were very kind, had me get my name tag and allowed me to walk on in.
It wasn’t clear to me what I was going to do, but it was clear that I had to do it. (That’s about a clear as mud, isn’t it?)
When I turned the corner to walk down the first hall, if felt as if I was going to pass out. There was a weight on my head that seemed to push me into the floor and as I walked I felt as if I were on a ship that was tossing and turning in the sea. It was a very overwhelming sensation. Of course, I am back to sobbing.
Down the halls I continued until I arrived at the chapel. No one else was in the room and I was able to cry in peace. Peace. Did I say peace? No peace yet. Just agony! I prayed and cried and prayed some more. The interesting thing is, after stopping at the front desk, no one spoke to me or even seemed to notice me.
When I was able to leave the chapel, I proceeded to the family room area where we had spent many hours making phone calls, eating and just taking a break for a little while. The nurse’s station is right outside of this room and the doctor who had admitted Dad was at the desk. He was talking to a couple of nurses and none of them seemed to notice me for which I was thankful. I walked around the family room, soaking in the memories, got a tissue to wipe up the tears and runny nose and then left.
As I walked down the hall to leave a realization hit me. This time, as I left, I was grieving my father as a little girl who lost her Daddy. The last time I left the building, I was grieving as the daughter/caretaker who had responsibilities to complete. The overwhelming feeling that I had experienced upon my arrival was as if I were grieving the loss of a beloved person for the first time. I cried more that day than I had in months but it was very cathartic! Emotionally, I was drained, exhausted and wrung out. But it was all part of the healing that was needed to help me move on to the next phase.
I was blessed beyond measure to be the daughter of H. John Blann. His legacy to his family lives on. He was a great example of consistency in his walk with God and his love for others. I want to follow in his footsteps.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Addendum to My Mother's Hands
It was pointed out to me today that I had inadvertently left my younger brother, Rich, out of the story completely. At the time, it slipped my mind that I did, in fact, have a fun story to tell regarding his birth. It has very little to do with the focus of this story (Mom's hands) but it is fun to recount. As I mentioned when writing about my older brother's birth, because our family lived so far from the hospital, Mom had to go to the hospital early and wait for labor. Dad took Mom to Lusaka a couple of weeks before her due date. When Dad came to visit her a week or so later, he found her walking around the hospital hallway. He commented to her that she was looking well and moving around so well at this point her her pregnancy. She grinned at him and asked him, "would you like to see your son now?" He couldn't tell that she had already had their baby???? I might have been tempted to smack him. :) :)
Saturday, January 16, 2010
MY MOTHER'S HANDS
I have been thinking lately about how we have talked so much about all the amazing things that Dad did as a pioneer missionary, as an innovative, creative personality, as a college president, pastor, father & friend. It struck me that he couldn’t have done all of that without the support, courage and pioneer spirit of his wife. She had to be equal to the task and willing to go on that journey with him. She was not without stamina, creativity, perseverance and a strong faith.
Years ago, when I was writing a lot more, before I got so caught up in bringing up children and life, I had planned to write an article about this amazing woman that I call Mom. One day I was looking at her arthritic hands and got to thinking about all of the wonderful things that she had done with those hands. I am now going to do what I wanted to do so long ago.
In college, she played softball and was in the band. Her fingers helped to bring music forth from her alto horn. It was that horn that gave my Dad one of his first opportunities to hang out with her…he carried her “heavy” horn for her back to the room where the instruments were stored after band practice.
Later, those hands mentored little children in the kindergarten classroom, prior to her joining my Dad in Liberia after the war was over.
Mom and Dad married after college and Dad left two weeks later for Africa without her. He traveled by freighter across the ocean in a zigzag pattern to avoid enemy subs. About two years later, Mom joined Dad in Liberia, flying over there alone to meet him. I asked her once, as only I can, to please try to tell me what it was like meeting your husband again after being apart for so long and having only been married for two weeks. No matter how hard I prodded to get her to give me details of stress, adjustment, etc., all she would say is, “you just do what you have to do”.
While in Liberia she became pregnant with their first child, my sister, Rosie. Here she is, young and alone – away from her mother, no cell phones, no email – and with a doctor who was really a veterinarian and had to look everything up in books. The only other woman available to her was the wife of the headmaster of the school where Dad was employed. Mom has often commented about the fact that God just took care of them because there were no doctors or hospitals available like there were when my own children were born.
They came home from Liberia and then returned to Northern Rhodesia. Here, my older brother was born…breech. My daughter has had two breech babies who were delivered by c-section. My daughter-in-law also had to have her breech baby delivered by c-section. My mother delivered Paul while he was in the breech position. Because they lived so far away from the hospital, she couldn’t wait until she went into labor but had to be taken there to wait to go into labor. When she arrived before Paul was born, the doctor fussed at her and asked why she hadn’t come in before for her appointments. She had…he was a different doctor and hadn’t seen her at any of the other visits to the hospital in Lusaka. He was scared about her condition and therefore the gruffness to her regarding the situation. She survived…obviously and thankfully!
Mom was very active in many of the aspects of the mission work. She helped in the school, teaching the women life skills, she helped in the hospital and learned medical skills that would give many of us pause!
She learned to give injections, bandage wounds and once assisted in sawing a woman’s arm off to save her life following a crocodile bite.
The following is an excerpt of a letter from a fellow missionary at the time.
John and Eva Blann pioneered the Gwembe Valley work in
what was then Northern Rhodesia. They were there during the late 1940’s and the early 1950's for their first term. They were the first
missionaries to take a motor vehicle down to the Zambezi River in the
Gwembe Valley and then they built a Mission Station on the banks of the River and ministered to the Gwembe Valley people through schools and a hospital. They were the first white people to spend the rainey season in the Gwembe Valley and I could go on and on...
It was while they were serving in the Valley that Dad built the grass hut they lived in while they were preparing to build a block house with thatch roof. This was the place where Mom was bitten on her finger by a puff adder snake. They were 200 miles from Lusaka (and the nearest hospital). The nurse that was serving with them in the Valley gave Mom all the anti-venom serum she had and they all piled into the Landrover (jeep)…Mom, Dad, Rosie, Paul and the nurse…and headed for Lusaka over dirt roads. Upon arriving at the hospital, the doctor declared that if she wasn’t already dead, she was probably going to make it. Many times on the trip there, Mom was sure that she wasn’t going to live. Miraculously, she lived, but her once beautiful hands were no longer intact. She lost the finger that the snake bit due to gangrene but that didn’t keep her hands idle. She learned to compensate and continued to type, play the piano and organ and all of the other normal tasks that she was called upon to execute.
Later, a snake got into the chicken house and swallowed a chicken and couldn’t get out because of the chicken inside of him. After the African boys killed the snake, Mom held it up in her bare hands for a picture. Dad wouldn’t go near it but we have a picture to prove her gumption.
They came back to the states in 1952 for a furlough. I was born during this time. At 33 years of age, she bravely returned to Africa with three children, one of them an infant of two months. She may have been brave but her mother wasn’t so thrilled that my parents were venturing out on an ocean liner with their infant granddaughter back to the land of scorpions and malaria.
Speaking of malaria, these hands of which I speak helped pour quinine down our throats to try to protect us from that disease. I remember my dad holding me in his arms and holding my nose as Mom waited for the open mouth, gasping for breath, to pour the dreaded medicine in. And when we did get sick, as all of us did, those same hands comforted and soothed us through our fevers. Her hands tucked our mosquito nets in at night to protect us from the mosquitoes that carried that disease.
Those precious hands drew outlines of our feet and sent them back to my grandmother in the states so that she could get us new shoes and send them back to Africa for us. (I just found one of those outlines in a file drawer today.) Often, by the time the shoes reached us, we may have already outgrown them.
Mom tells a story of a time when I was a baby and on the floor of the living room in our house in a make shift playpen. (Dining room chairs turned on their sides). She glanced across the room and to her horror she saw a snake not far from where I was playing. She grabbed me up and removed me to safety but I have often wondered why she didn’t just then and there, demand to remove her precious children to a safer environment!!! That is what “normal” parents would do, right? Would I have had that stamina to take those things in stride? Scorpions, snakes, malaria, etc.?
Another story I love to recall is how she protected my dad’s life. It may not have been in peril but I supposed it could have been. Dad was working with the African men to dig a well. There was some problem and someone needed to go down in the well to check things out. No one else would, so Dad did. The African men lowered Dad in a bucket. At some point they lost control of the rope and dropped Dad down into the well. They all panicked and ran because they thought they had killed the missionary. Mom became aware of what was going on and took control of the situation. She demanded they return and she instructed them on what to do to get him out. He was hurt, not seriously, but her quick thinking and commanding spirit was definitely helpful to Dad that day!
Mom worked on the business side of the mission station doing much of the necessary bookwork. She worked with the clothing that was sent out from the states to help distribute it among the natives. This was a regular occurrence and part of the mission responsibility.
When we came back to the states in 1960, Mom returned to her elementary school teaching. Later, in 1966, when Dad became president of Frankfort Pilgrim College, Mom went there to work as well. First helping out in the office and then on to being the campus librarian.
Her hands helped me learn to drive but mostly her feet got a workout on the imaginary brakes on the passenger side of the car.
Mom and I had a rough time through most of my high school years. Poor Mom…she was “blessed” with a daughter who didn’t quite fit her expectations of what a refined young lady should be. I didn’t walk right, talk right, dress right and often think right. I was the one who embarrassed her with “to the point” questions, loud, silly voices and grades that were not acceptable. But I KNOW that she loves me! I moved away from home soon after I graduated from high school. Not too long after I had moved I got a call from Mom to tell me that she was going to take a bus trip, by herself, from Indiana to Milwaukee, to come and spend time with me because she missed me. I was astounded and excited. That was the beginning of our adult friendship. Over the years I learned that it was okay to be me and she seemed to like that part of me that she could never, herself be.
Later, she worked hand in hand with Dad in his pastorates. She directed the choirs at their churches with her wonderful hands. At one of their churches, she was awarded a directors baton and she treasured it for years.
Her hands have never been idle. She lovingly crocheted each of her grandchildren an afghan and wasn’t satisfied until she had completed a blanket for each of her 17 grandchildren.
She unselfishly cared for her mother in the last years of her life and when she was gone, she moved on to volunteer in the local facility to clothe and feed the needy.
Mom and Dad moved from Denton, MD to Orange Park, FL in 2001, just 2 weeks before the 9/11 tragedy. It has been my honor and privilege to be able to use my hands to give back in the care of my parents these past 8 ½ years. Mom’s hands comforted Dad in his last days. I have photos of some tender moments as she rubbed his face and loved on him as he was preparing to journey on to be with Jesus.
Mom’s hands are still active. She uses them to play bingo in the facility where she is now living. Another new fascination for her is Wii bowling! She just doesn’t understand why more people at the facility are not interested in trying it. Her memory is such that she can’t remember from one time to the next how to hold and release the button (she has to be constantly reminded) but that doesn’t stop her. Any time there is Wii bowling going on, she’s there!!
These hands of my mother’s have diapered, spanked, caressed , comforted, worshipped, ministered (both spiritually and physically). The important thing to remember is that she never could have accomplished this with such grace and selflessness without the strength and daily presence of her Lord and Savior. Even yet, in her diminished state of mind, her love for others is evident in her interaction with those around her, both residents and staff. She continues to be a light in the darkness as the love of Jesus shines through her. Thank you, Lord, for the gift of my mother and her very special hands!
Years ago, when I was writing a lot more, before I got so caught up in bringing up children and life, I had planned to write an article about this amazing woman that I call Mom. One day I was looking at her arthritic hands and got to thinking about all of the wonderful things that she had done with those hands. I am now going to do what I wanted to do so long ago.
In college, she played softball and was in the band. Her fingers helped to bring music forth from her alto horn. It was that horn that gave my Dad one of his first opportunities to hang out with her…he carried her “heavy” horn for her back to the room where the instruments were stored after band practice.
Later, those hands mentored little children in the kindergarten classroom, prior to her joining my Dad in Liberia after the war was over.
Mom and Dad married after college and Dad left two weeks later for Africa without her. He traveled by freighter across the ocean in a zigzag pattern to avoid enemy subs. About two years later, Mom joined Dad in Liberia, flying over there alone to meet him. I asked her once, as only I can, to please try to tell me what it was like meeting your husband again after being apart for so long and having only been married for two weeks. No matter how hard I prodded to get her to give me details of stress, adjustment, etc., all she would say is, “you just do what you have to do”.
While in Liberia she became pregnant with their first child, my sister, Rosie. Here she is, young and alone – away from her mother, no cell phones, no email – and with a doctor who was really a veterinarian and had to look everything up in books. The only other woman available to her was the wife of the headmaster of the school where Dad was employed. Mom has often commented about the fact that God just took care of them because there were no doctors or hospitals available like there were when my own children were born.
They came home from Liberia and then returned to Northern Rhodesia. Here, my older brother was born…breech. My daughter has had two breech babies who were delivered by c-section. My daughter-in-law also had to have her breech baby delivered by c-section. My mother delivered Paul while he was in the breech position. Because they lived so far away from the hospital, she couldn’t wait until she went into labor but had to be taken there to wait to go into labor. When she arrived before Paul was born, the doctor fussed at her and asked why she hadn’t come in before for her appointments. She had…he was a different doctor and hadn’t seen her at any of the other visits to the hospital in Lusaka. He was scared about her condition and therefore the gruffness to her regarding the situation. She survived…obviously and thankfully!
Mom was very active in many of the aspects of the mission work. She helped in the school, teaching the women life skills, she helped in the hospital and learned medical skills that would give many of us pause!
She learned to give injections, bandage wounds and once assisted in sawing a woman’s arm off to save her life following a crocodile bite.
The following is an excerpt of a letter from a fellow missionary at the time.
John and Eva Blann pioneered the Gwembe Valley work in
what was then Northern Rhodesia. They were there during the late 1940’s and the early 1950's for their first term. They were the first
missionaries to take a motor vehicle down to the Zambezi River in the
Gwembe Valley and then they built a Mission Station on the banks of the River and ministered to the Gwembe Valley people through schools and a hospital. They were the first white people to spend the rainey season in the Gwembe Valley and I could go on and on...
It was while they were serving in the Valley that Dad built the grass hut they lived in while they were preparing to build a block house with thatch roof. This was the place where Mom was bitten on her finger by a puff adder snake. They were 200 miles from Lusaka (and the nearest hospital). The nurse that was serving with them in the Valley gave Mom all the anti-venom serum she had and they all piled into the Landrover (jeep)…Mom, Dad, Rosie, Paul and the nurse…and headed for Lusaka over dirt roads. Upon arriving at the hospital, the doctor declared that if she wasn’t already dead, she was probably going to make it. Many times on the trip there, Mom was sure that she wasn’t going to live. Miraculously, she lived, but her once beautiful hands were no longer intact. She lost the finger that the snake bit due to gangrene but that didn’t keep her hands idle. She learned to compensate and continued to type, play the piano and organ and all of the other normal tasks that she was called upon to execute.
Later, a snake got into the chicken house and swallowed a chicken and couldn’t get out because of the chicken inside of him. After the African boys killed the snake, Mom held it up in her bare hands for a picture. Dad wouldn’t go near it but we have a picture to prove her gumption.
They came back to the states in 1952 for a furlough. I was born during this time. At 33 years of age, she bravely returned to Africa with three children, one of them an infant of two months. She may have been brave but her mother wasn’t so thrilled that my parents were venturing out on an ocean liner with their infant granddaughter back to the land of scorpions and malaria.
Speaking of malaria, these hands of which I speak helped pour quinine down our throats to try to protect us from that disease. I remember my dad holding me in his arms and holding my nose as Mom waited for the open mouth, gasping for breath, to pour the dreaded medicine in. And when we did get sick, as all of us did, those same hands comforted and soothed us through our fevers. Her hands tucked our mosquito nets in at night to protect us from the mosquitoes that carried that disease.
Those precious hands drew outlines of our feet and sent them back to my grandmother in the states so that she could get us new shoes and send them back to Africa for us. (I just found one of those outlines in a file drawer today.) Often, by the time the shoes reached us, we may have already outgrown them.
Mom tells a story of a time when I was a baby and on the floor of the living room in our house in a make shift playpen. (Dining room chairs turned on their sides). She glanced across the room and to her horror she saw a snake not far from where I was playing. She grabbed me up and removed me to safety but I have often wondered why she didn’t just then and there, demand to remove her precious children to a safer environment!!! That is what “normal” parents would do, right? Would I have had that stamina to take those things in stride? Scorpions, snakes, malaria, etc.?
Another story I love to recall is how she protected my dad’s life. It may not have been in peril but I supposed it could have been. Dad was working with the African men to dig a well. There was some problem and someone needed to go down in the well to check things out. No one else would, so Dad did. The African men lowered Dad in a bucket. At some point they lost control of the rope and dropped Dad down into the well. They all panicked and ran because they thought they had killed the missionary. Mom became aware of what was going on and took control of the situation. She demanded they return and she instructed them on what to do to get him out. He was hurt, not seriously, but her quick thinking and commanding spirit was definitely helpful to Dad that day!
Mom worked on the business side of the mission station doing much of the necessary bookwork. She worked with the clothing that was sent out from the states to help distribute it among the natives. This was a regular occurrence and part of the mission responsibility.
When we came back to the states in 1960, Mom returned to her elementary school teaching. Later, in 1966, when Dad became president of Frankfort Pilgrim College, Mom went there to work as well. First helping out in the office and then on to being the campus librarian.
Her hands helped me learn to drive but mostly her feet got a workout on the imaginary brakes on the passenger side of the car.
Mom and I had a rough time through most of my high school years. Poor Mom…she was “blessed” with a daughter who didn’t quite fit her expectations of what a refined young lady should be. I didn’t walk right, talk right, dress right and often think right. I was the one who embarrassed her with “to the point” questions, loud, silly voices and grades that were not acceptable. But I KNOW that she loves me! I moved away from home soon after I graduated from high school. Not too long after I had moved I got a call from Mom to tell me that she was going to take a bus trip, by herself, from Indiana to Milwaukee, to come and spend time with me because she missed me. I was astounded and excited. That was the beginning of our adult friendship. Over the years I learned that it was okay to be me and she seemed to like that part of me that she could never, herself be.
Later, she worked hand in hand with Dad in his pastorates. She directed the choirs at their churches with her wonderful hands. At one of their churches, she was awarded a directors baton and she treasured it for years.
Her hands have never been idle. She lovingly crocheted each of her grandchildren an afghan and wasn’t satisfied until she had completed a blanket for each of her 17 grandchildren.
She unselfishly cared for her mother in the last years of her life and when she was gone, she moved on to volunteer in the local facility to clothe and feed the needy.
Mom and Dad moved from Denton, MD to Orange Park, FL in 2001, just 2 weeks before the 9/11 tragedy. It has been my honor and privilege to be able to use my hands to give back in the care of my parents these past 8 ½ years. Mom’s hands comforted Dad in his last days. I have photos of some tender moments as she rubbed his face and loved on him as he was preparing to journey on to be with Jesus.
Mom’s hands are still active. She uses them to play bingo in the facility where she is now living. Another new fascination for her is Wii bowling! She just doesn’t understand why more people at the facility are not interested in trying it. Her memory is such that she can’t remember from one time to the next how to hold and release the button (she has to be constantly reminded) but that doesn’t stop her. Any time there is Wii bowling going on, she’s there!!
These hands of my mother’s have diapered, spanked, caressed , comforted, worshipped, ministered (both spiritually and physically). The important thing to remember is that she never could have accomplished this with such grace and selflessness without the strength and daily presence of her Lord and Savior. Even yet, in her diminished state of mind, her love for others is evident in her interaction with those around her, both residents and staff. She continues to be a light in the darkness as the love of Jesus shines through her. Thank you, Lord, for the gift of my mother and her very special hands!
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