The Other Side Of Mom
From the series: The Thief, The Cross, And Mom
by Terrence G. ClarkWho can find a virtuous woman? I’m sure my daddy did.
Mom was a country girl, but her diary exposed that if my father had not proposed when he did, she would have been city-bound. Newark NJ, of all places, across the tunnel from New York. Hard to believe possible such a transition, she being a reserved, farmer’s daughter. Mom’s exterior in public was timid and meek. At home, a stronger personality prevailed empowering her to run her household. She also worked outside of our home when I was a child, as “Help”—and helping dad out. I remember staying, during the day, with grandmom, who lived down the street, waiting for mom to come home every day. She’d tote a small brown paper bag with a handful of jellied, watermelon slice, shaped, candy—a treat for me if that day I had been a good boy. A small feat for some, but big I suppose for her, taking me on the bus to the city—Camden NJ for medical appointments. I believe, a daunting adventure for a woman who it would take close to an hour to drive a car from our house to the neighboring town just seven miles away. And, almost unbelievable that her history records she was a survivor of a prop plane crash. Mom reared me and my four siblings, but the house was always full with more—extended families of foster care—my temporary brothers and sisters. With a strict religious household, we weren’t the popular house where all the neighborhood kids hung out. We were just the house that was always filled with surrogate sibs. |
My mother's voice was soft. Almost barely heard at times in a room of people. The change was distinct, when she was on her turf, standing at the top of our driveway, which was downfield from the other houses in the neighborhood. She’d call my name when I was absent from sight and chores not done.
The two syllables, in my nickname, stretched into five, sounding like a trumpet’s blast calling soldiers home from battle. I almost swore she knew how to convert sound into image. Her voice would follow the airstream, enter houses, down basements, through doors, and manifest her visage—-hands on hips. That same voice sang like an angel, at her turn to sing on the church’s senior choir—although adjusting her pitch multiple times to hit the right note.
Dad was tough in those days. Discipline came by his hand or his leather belt—hearing no excuse for perceived bad behavior. Mom would talk us through the old school discipline with her voice slightly raised. We listened but watched in her hand the infamous switch—skinny tree limbs of leaves waiting to leave their mark in our disobedient flesh. She let us have it and then be done—lesson learned most times. In church, she’d be more discreet. I remember being taking outside of services for acting up and getting the switching to the legs. Other times, she'd pinch my legs with four fingers of nails that always shocked me back to civility in the presence of the Lord. I remember when she squeezed my hand, one last time, on this side of heaven, as I stood at her hospital bed. Peace came to visit her soul's home and she yielded to see Jesus.
The two syllables, in my nickname, stretched into five, sounding like a trumpet’s blast calling soldiers home from battle. I almost swore she knew how to convert sound into image. Her voice would follow the airstream, enter houses, down basements, through doors, and manifest her visage—-hands on hips. That same voice sang like an angel, at her turn to sing on the church’s senior choir—although adjusting her pitch multiple times to hit the right note.
Dad was tough in those days. Discipline came by his hand or his leather belt—hearing no excuse for perceived bad behavior. Mom would talk us through the old school discipline with her voice slightly raised. We listened but watched in her hand the infamous switch—skinny tree limbs of leaves waiting to leave their mark in our disobedient flesh. She let us have it and then be done—lesson learned most times. In church, she’d be more discreet. I remember being taking outside of services for acting up and getting the switching to the legs. Other times, she'd pinch my legs with four fingers of nails that always shocked me back to civility in the presence of the Lord. I remember when she squeezed my hand, one last time, on this side of heaven, as I stood at her hospital bed. Peace came to visit her soul's home and she yielded to see Jesus.
She knew what was in me. I was the middle child born on Thanksgiving Day 1959. I interrupted my older brother and sister’s holiday, in the middle of sweet potato pies, in the oven. It was also the day before her birthday. God’s humor I suppose, like the pies and the turkey, I was done, ready to meet her face to face.
Nobody can believe in you like Mom and she did. I learned faith from her. When I didn’t feel like going to school, really wanting to hide a bit from life. With her words, she'd coach me—out of bed, into the bathroom, through getting dressed, and on the bus, and on to a championship day. She believed in me—endured the possible ridicule of the other women, in the sanctuary’s kitchen, not caring that I was there, scoffing at my poorly mended cleft lip. They asked her if I ever be anything, date, or kiss a girl. |
It was her encouragement that pushed me to sing my first song in public, read my first poem, and write and direct my first play. As the Lord promoted me, mom was always checking in. Perhaps, My greatest fan. It was, as if, all along, despite the externals, she knew what was in me.
Jesus mom knew what was in him. Despite the Hollywood casting, Jesus was regular—although there was something that stood out about him—he was not the pretty boy at school. Scripture says There was nothing desirable about him. I’m sure a lot of that speaks of his disfigurement at his Passion. Still, honor was not based on his physical appearance or known family crest. Until his ministry began at age 30, scripture speaks little of his earth years before. Luke (of the Gospels) says town folks just knew him as the boy down the street.
Jesus mom knew what was in him. Despite the Hollywood casting, Jesus was regular—although there was something that stood out about him—he was not the pretty boy at school. Scripture says There was nothing desirable about him. I’m sure a lot of that speaks of his disfigurement at his Passion. Still, honor was not based on his physical appearance or known family crest. Until his ministry began at age 30, scripture speaks little of his earth years before. Luke (of the Gospels) says town folks just knew him as the boy down the street.
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Assuredly, Mary knew. She would remember the angel Gabriel’s words. At the wedding, when Jesus said his time was not yet, it was his mother, Mary, that his heavenly Father used to push the public button on his ministry.
“Whatever he says, do,” she said.
Mary knew what was in Jesus. Scripture records her also as meek, lowly, chaste, and obedient to God, but she knew. Her own questions were answered, steeped in the power by which they were delivered.
“How can these things be,” she queried?” Unlike her cousin’s husband—Zachariah, who questioned God’s omnipotence and the validity of the vision, Mary wanted to know her position. “I don’t know a man she acknowledged.” The place shook where she was at. The angel Gabriel responded. “The Holy Ghost shall come upon you and the power of the Most-High shall overshadow you.” Speaking the fulness of the visitation he continued, “And the things that shall be born of you shall be call the Son of God.”
My mother fit that category. Mild and meek, yet she trusted God. Mom wasn’t perfect. She kept fear pushed back. Although, times of worry was only evident in her precautions to her house and children. She was of those who preached clean underwear and home before dark. She was very careful of who she let in her house, not because she lacked hospitality but because she felt her house was never just right.
Her faith didn’t bring her the finer things in life, but it carried her through. It caused her to stand in the hardest of times. She operated on the level of what she could see—but mixed that with hope. She trusted the Heavenly Father would always bring her family through.
“Whatever he says, do,” she said.
Mary knew what was in Jesus. Scripture records her also as meek, lowly, chaste, and obedient to God, but she knew. Her own questions were answered, steeped in the power by which they were delivered.
“How can these things be,” she queried?” Unlike her cousin’s husband—Zachariah, who questioned God’s omnipotence and the validity of the vision, Mary wanted to know her position. “I don’t know a man she acknowledged.” The place shook where she was at. The angel Gabriel responded. “The Holy Ghost shall come upon you and the power of the Most-High shall overshadow you.” Speaking the fulness of the visitation he continued, “And the things that shall be born of you shall be call the Son of God.”
My mother fit that category. Mild and meek, yet she trusted God. Mom wasn’t perfect. She kept fear pushed back. Although, times of worry was only evident in her precautions to her house and children. She was of those who preached clean underwear and home before dark. She was very careful of who she let in her house, not because she lacked hospitality but because she felt her house was never just right.
Her faith didn’t bring her the finer things in life, but it carried her through. It caused her to stand in the hardest of times. She operated on the level of what she could see—but mixed that with hope. She trusted the Heavenly Father would always bring her family through.
Keren unwound herself from the fetal position, pushed her torso up, locking her elbows, mounting her weight on her hands, sitting on her behind. She cleaned the grit out of the corner of her eyes with her right thumb and fingers, clasping the bridge of her nose. Staring towards the furthest wall, she gathered her thoughts. She left off where she was hours ago in prayer.
“Lord remember my son. Don’t let him die in his sin.” Eliab was a thief. From his childhood, he began. Missing things here and there, no not from home, but places he had been. The marketers on the narrow streets of town suspected. Always a suspicious eye as he approached their carts, store, or lofts. |
Twenty years or so had passed since his first arrest. As a juvenile, the beating not as severe. Congruently, another conviction at that age could have gotten him stoned. After then, most of his reputation was based on circumstantial evidence. It wasn’t until he robbed a tax collector, thinking by diversion he wasn’t seen. The Romans weren’t as merciful as the Jews. Now her son was sentenced to death. Keren got the Word. She wasn’t sure when, but she knew the manner—crucifixion.
Jerusalem was alive. It was Passover, perhaps the biggest of feast and Holiday. On top of that, an unexpected coronation was in the works. The crowds were hailing the young prophet who had stirred the nation over the last few years. Hosanna they cried—throwing coats and branches of palms at his feet as he rode upon a donkey into town—the mark of a king.
Keren wasn’t aware of the height of the commotion. She had spent all night in prayer. In fact, closed in her house for several days. However, she had already once met this man they were calling Messiah. He had walked by her—just a bystander in the crowd. She would never forget the love that radiated from him. He melted her heart. Joy and hope invaded her being as he spoke. She called his name.
She said he must be the one they prophesied would come. The moment she received him; she would always remember. It was like paradise. “If Eliab could only meet him, I know his life would change, she thought, “and what I feel, he would have it too.”
Jerusalem was alive. It was Passover, perhaps the biggest of feast and Holiday. On top of that, an unexpected coronation was in the works. The crowds were hailing the young prophet who had stirred the nation over the last few years. Hosanna they cried—throwing coats and branches of palms at his feet as he rode upon a donkey into town—the mark of a king.
Keren wasn’t aware of the height of the commotion. She had spent all night in prayer. In fact, closed in her house for several days. However, she had already once met this man they were calling Messiah. He had walked by her—just a bystander in the crowd. She would never forget the love that radiated from him. He melted her heart. Joy and hope invaded her being as he spoke. She called his name.
She said he must be the one they prophesied would come. The moment she received him; she would always remember. It was like paradise. “If Eliab could only meet him, I know his life would change, she thought, “and what I feel, he would have it too.”
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My mother was one of the handful of people that I could talk faith with. She believed in miracles. On a rack next to her bed she kept her supply of reading material. Stashed with her mix of romance magazines, tabloids, and Reader Digests, there were books on faith and the power of God. My first faith exploit was fueled from reading one of her books—Oral Roberts--Seed Faith.
In my teens, I was plagued with some type of gastrointestinal disorder. It caused me severe pain. During the bouts, I could not stand up straight. I thought, if a woman, in labor suffered worse who could bear. The doctor visits or home remedies weren’t effective.
I recall walking around the exterior of our country house declaring. “I’ll not have this, referring to the condition. I’m healed.” It had gotten a hold of me back then. I knew that God Almighty had invested his power in and on me. The disease left me. It has been over forty years ago. I have not had that pain since. I can eat practically anything without incidence.
Without a doubt, I attributed that revelation as coming from my mother. It was her book. It was her perseverance, I learned. She birthed me, so to speak, bent over in pain. And in pain, bent over, from her stash of books, the obtaining of miracles and healing faith was birthed in me.
In my teens, I was plagued with some type of gastrointestinal disorder. It caused me severe pain. During the bouts, I could not stand up straight. I thought, if a woman, in labor suffered worse who could bear. The doctor visits or home remedies weren’t effective.
I recall walking around the exterior of our country house declaring. “I’ll not have this, referring to the condition. I’m healed.” It had gotten a hold of me back then. I knew that God Almighty had invested his power in and on me. The disease left me. It has been over forty years ago. I have not had that pain since. I can eat practically anything without incidence.
Without a doubt, I attributed that revelation as coming from my mother. It was her book. It was her perseverance, I learned. She birthed me, so to speak, bent over in pain. And in pain, bent over, from her stash of books, the obtaining of miracles and healing faith was birthed in me.
The lives of the individuals in this story are coming to a meeting place. They are all leading to the same hill. Their identities of the three will culminate and be eternally sealed. Miraculously, in this apex of life, their stories will merge. All are having their story impacted by an interceding mother.
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If you would like to read the rest of this story respond to the connecting Facebook post or email us at vof1@aol.com and or look for it in an upcoming edition of voiceCNC.com