(For the ones that worry)
You need to know this: my mother did not like to sew.
My parents lived and
raised their family among the Tsáchila people of western Ecuador, eventually
moving from the jungle out into the neighboring town. Dad’s service could be
measured in concrete achievements: study guides, a Spanish-Tsáfiki
dictionary, the translation into Tsáfiki of the New Testament, consultancy,
workshops, articles, and more.
Mom’s service was
less visible. She learned how to bake bread in a wood-burning oven without
burning the bread as well. She learned why a pressure cooker is your best
friend when dinner involves jungle game. She raised chickens. City girl that she was, she really loved those chickens.
In the early years, she provided basic
medical care to her family and community, and more-than-basic care
with the help of a distant doctor on short-wave radio. Later, she served as interpreter and cultural broker between
Spanish-speaking hospital staff and the Tsáfiki-speaking community. She did
literacy work. Hosted Bible studies and prayer groups. Wrote songs. Taught
music.
And she raised four
children in circumstances that bore no resemblance to her own childhood.
We climbed trees, made
forts, dug tunnels, swam in the river down the hill and she cleaned and treated
the inevitable bumps, bruises, cuts and grime we came home with--and yet, with
the exception of a few rules (such as “no shoes, no machete”), she never
stopped us from doing it all over again.
Oh, and she sewed.
There were no stores with ready-made clothes where we lived, so despite the
fact that Mom really, truly, did not like to sew, she sewed.
The hardest thing my
mother did, though, was watch her children go away to boarding school at a
young age because at the time, where we lived, there were few other options.
Through it all, Mom worried.
She prayed and she worried. One of her deepest fears was that she didn't measure up as a mother. That she wasn't enough.
The summer before my
senior year, Mom and I started the annual process of back-to-school shopping. In the absence of clothing stores, we made our annual trek to El Carmen, a
nearby town where fabric shops lined the streets.
I say shops. They
were more like small warehouses. Dogs roamed at will. Noise and dust floated in
generously from the streets. Shelves lined the shop walls, reaching the
2-story-high ceilings, piled high with fabrics of every kind and color. There
were ladders, but most of the time shoppers would point to the fabric they
wanted and an employee would use a long pole to extract the bolt, letting it
fall almost to the floor before catching it.
After the fabric
stores, we visited the local seamstress. Mom and the seamstress discussed each
piece, the cost, and life in general, while I fidgeted. Mom and I argued about
style (she wanted ruffles, I wanted tailored; she liked lace, I hated it; she loved
pink, pink was "eww"). A fitting date was agreed on, and just like that,
my back-to-school shopping was done.
I realize now how
bittersweet that last trip must have been for Mom. My siblings were grown and
gone. That year, the annual ritual kicked off the final march toward an empty
nest. Her chances to get it right as a hands-on mother were quickly running
out. She didn’t even scold when I whined over not getting the grey pantsuit I
wanted.
(As for me, I was 17,
oblivious, and wrapped in righteous indignation. I really wanted that pantsuit.)
Just before school
started, Mom and Dad drove me back to Quito for my last year in boarding school.
My father took off for Africa to do some consultancy work. My mother went back
home, to a quiet, empty house. Before she left, Mom extracted a promise that,
despite all the new-school-year activities, I would go home to visit in a
couple of weeks.
On the appointed
weekend, I made the 3-hour bus trip down the mountains. From the terminal, it
was a short, 20-minute walk to the house.
Mom met me at the
door. She looked inordinately smug.
When I walked into
the house, there on the table was the sewing machine and the remains of a
project. And there on the landing rail was a dove grey suit jacket. A matching
vest. Skirt. Pants. And a beautiful, dark blue blouse with a tie, not a ruffle
in sight.
…………………
Mom died 10 years ago.
Just a few weeks after she made my grey suit, she was diagnosed with breast
cancer. She beat it. She went on to beat cancer two more times. She struggled
all her life with depression. She loved her children messily but deeply. She was enough.
And so are you.
-CS 060124
Edited to correct number of years to 10.
