On being enough

 (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. 

 

What's in a name?

I wish I could introduce you to my friend John, but I’m not exactly sure where he is right now.

We’ve only met once, actually. It was a couple of weeks ago. I was on my way home from the post office, waiting in a line of cars for the light to turn green. It’s a busy intersection and seemed to be more backed up than usual. I craned my neck a little and spied the problem.

A man was trying to cross the intersection while pulling/pushing two shopping carts (one large, one small), and propelling his hand-powered wheelchair. He needed about three more hands.

It was excruciating to watch.

Drivers were starting to get impatient. A few began inching forward. One or two tapped their horns. The man was sweating visibly (and I was 3 cars back), desperately trying to maneuver his meager belongings across the 6-lane road.

“I wish someone would help him!” I grumbled to God.
“Why don’t you?” He replied.
“I’m too many cars back.”
“You won’t always be.”
“I have a wonky knee.”
“You have a cane.”
“I’m in a turn lane.”
“So turn. You can always turn around.”

God is irritatingly good at poking holes in my excuses. 

Cars inched past, and by the time I reached the intersection the man was almost across. The only place he could possibly be aiming for was the grocery store on the corner. The road begins a downward slope right there; once past the store entrance and its uphill incline, it gets steeper. If he missed that entrance, he was in danger of picking up too much speed and rolling uncontrollably to the bottom of the hill.

Traffic, still inching past the man and his carts and giving him disapproving looks, grudgingly let me move over two lanes. I pulled into the grocery store parking lot and stopped.

“I might fall going down that entrance,” I reminded God.
“And you might not.” He answered.

I didn’t.

As I approached the man, he looked wary and I realized that oncoming strangers were not usually a positive experience in his world.

“Where can I push this for you?” I asked, reaching for the larger cart.  Out of breath, he gestured to the grocery store. I pushed the cart up to a level place and went back. He’d reached the upward slope with the smaller cart in tow.

“I’ve got it,” he panted, but he hadn’t. I grabbed one end and said, “You push and I’ll pull,” and between us we got the cart up the slope and onto level ground beside the larger one.  It  crossed my mind that passers-by might assume that I, too, was homeless and that made me smile. We made a confusing pair: thin, wiry, homeless him and out-of-shape, obviously-not-underfed me.  

“Do you have any chocolate milk?” he asked and I thought that a bit odd. “I need the calories and the fat,” he added, and then it made heartbreaking sense.

I apologized for my lack of chocolate milk and held out my hand. “I’m Carol.” He shook my hand firmly. “John,” he said, “like the author of Revelation.” I laughed and countered, “And like my late husband. It's a really good name.”

Side-by-side, we made our way to the grocery store, me walking and pushing the large cart, John rolling and pushing the small one. He shared a couple of stories from his life on the streets. Not self-pitying, just factual. The car that hit him because he was in the way. The frequent thefts because others could run and he couldn’t give chase.

“But I’ll survive,” he said. “I have so far.”

We reached the grocery store. John was going to go in and use what little money he had to buy chocolate milk. It killed me that I had no cash in my purse to offer him. We parted ways.

As I started to walk back to my car, he called out, “Stop, please!”

I turned and he gestured for me to come nearer. As I did, he took out a beautiful purple, blue and green handmade throw. “A lady made this for me,” he said softly. “I can’t bear for it to be stolen. I want the chance to give it away. I want to give it away to you.”

His face looked haunted. I thanked him for his generosity and promised to take good care of it. “I’ll survive,” he said again, “and I have other things to keep me warm. But I’ll be happier knowing I was able to give it away.”

So I turned and walked to my car, a man’s dearest treasure in my hands. I was glad he couldn’t see me cry.

I haven’t seen John-like-the-author-of-Revelation since, but I carry chocolate Ensure in my car now, just in case.

And yesterday marked 19 years since my John died. Generosity was his hallmark. He would have stopped his old pickup truck mid-intersection, gotten out and helped push the carts, chatting with his namesake, and gleefully exaggerating his limp for the benefit of all the impatient drivers. 

I don’t have his chutzpah. Instead, I have a world of memories of one John to make me smile, and the precious treasure of another to keep me humble. 

That's a lot to pack into a name. Unless it's a really good one.

©2024 Carol Shaw