by Ross Decker Sr
Yesterday was Mothers’ Day. Earlier in the week was my mother’s birthday. And, while rummaging through some all photos, I found her confirmation certificate. My mother passed away several years ago.
This is usually the set up for a piece on how much I miss her and how dearly I’d want her back. But, that would require me to be a better person than I am. I had none of those feelings, although seeing the confirmation certificate made me think of her life in a way I never did before.
She spent all of her childhood in a Lutheran orphanage here on Staten Island, as did her twin sister. And, although that’s pretty sad, the story immediately gets even sadder. Both their parents were living. When they were brought to the orphanage, the person doing the bringing was her mother. No one was dead. It was just that The Great Depression was just ending and the two girls were too expensive to keep. Her brothers stayed at home with their mom but the twin girls were brought to the orphanage where their father worked as the custodian. Her mother and father were separated. Her mother came to visit occasionally but her father, although working there, never made an effort to see her.
She grew up with no one fussing over her hair. She never had someone who would buy her favorite color socks. Her shoes and clothes were the same as all the other girls’. She spent every day wearing the uniform of an orphan. No one took her picture. There were no family events to commemorate. No one had a tea party with her. No one brought home a teddy bear. She had birthday acknowledgements, of course. The home gave the girls birthday berets and oranges. But, she knew that she was not getting a birthday party given by someone who loved her. They weren’t proud of her. They didn’t get excited over her graduations or her first teenage birthday. They had no hopes or expectations for her. No one did.
She couldn’t be adopted because both her parents were living. So, barring a change of heart from her mother she and her sister would be there until they were eighteen. And,that is what happened. She stayed in that orphanage with her sister, knowing her brothers were with their mother. Feeling that her brothers were more loved and more valuable to her parents.
My mother never had any example of how a caring mother might act. I know she was truly doing her best. But, the job of motherhood was outside of her skillset. She was always cold to me. Or mean. She beat me with belts whenever I would misbehave. And she would threaten to send me to the local orphanage.
Somehow, I knew even then that she was doing her best. She did good things, too. Every day she sang hymns to me. Whenever I left the house, she would send me off with a Scripture verse. So, I choose to remember the mother who, like Fanny Crosby, “did what she could.”