My mother used to tell stories; true, wondrous stories, stories of adventure, and intrigue and mystery. As a child I would sit on the worn, green braided rug beside her dark brown, wooden rocking chair and listen to her weave a family story into an evening of entertainment. Mom would rock back and forth in her worn oak rocker and reminisce. The wide seat and sturdy arms held Mom like an orator on a stage. The rocker had other attributes, too. As I remember, it offered a place of solace to clear a troubled mind, a sanctuary for a nursing mother, or a haven to calm a restless toddler. My favorite memory of the rocker was when Mom would be darning the family’s work clothes and begin one of her enchanting stories. One of my favorite stories Mom loved to tell involved a wasp and me. As a child I loved to hear stories about - well – me. Does it really change as we grow older?
Jeremiah 1:5a (ESV) "Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart."
My mom, Marie, was rocking and mending the family’s torn clothing. With nine children, I cannot imagine she ever reached the bottom of the wicker mending basket. Mom could darn sock holes, sew a torn seam, add recycled jean patches on ripped jeans, and even replace a broken zipper all by hand. This day she was taking time to rock and sew while her three girls; the eldest one five years of age, the middle one in her terrible twos, and the youngest less than nine months old, were all placed in their bedroom to nap.
As I stated, Mom was mending and taking a few moments to think about planning the evening meal. She was strategic with her time; caring for children, cooking meals for seven people, dishes, cleaning, and the list was endless. She was just closing a seam on my father’s red flannel shirt when she heard a sound. It was not a loud sound; something like a wasp flying into a window, bouncing off, hitting the window again and again. Fzzt, fzzt, whirr, fzzt whirr… Mom looked up – no wasp anywhere, not on a window, not on the ceiling. This time, she returned to her mending.
The sound began again, the wasp attempting escape was more persistent – louder in its whirring flight, striking with more velocity, FZZT, FZZT, WHIRR, FZZT, FZZT WHIRR.. Mom looked around the room; she in her rocking chair, mended shirt lying limply in her lap. “Where is that wasp?” she thought. “It must be a large one.” She spied last month’s edition of Good Housekeeping tucked in the crack of the worn tweed couch. “Yes, that will do nicely for a make-shift swatter,” she thought to herself. But, no wasp, no bumble bee, not even a horse fly was in the room, no - not one.
Mom picked up a piece of a toddler’s play clothes; an everyday dress. She stopped to close her eyes, to think, to rest her mind. She had been married 26 years and been pregnant eleven times. Pop and Mom’s first child Wayne Martin was named after her father, a Reading Railroad worker of 50 years. Wayne Martin had died during childbirth. He was delivered at home and the birthing had not gone well. There were complications; the use of forceps, a crushed chest, the breathing had become labored; little – less - nothing1. My father, who had stayed by my mother’s side during the birthing process, left the house and wept so loudly my mother heard him inside the house. “It was then,” she would say, “I knew.”
There it was again. Definitely the loudest the sound had been and the most persistent: Fzzt, fzzt, whirr, fzzt, fzzt, whirr, fzzt, fzzt. Mom heard it as she opened her eyes. Now it sounded like a small swarm of wasps. Over and over again they seemed to hit the ceiling. Louder and louder, faster and faster, the sound increased. Where could they be, nothing on the windows, no sign of the wasps on the ceiling….wait, the ceiling.
Mom replaced the toddler dress in the mending basket. “Unusual,” she thought aloud, “What is above this room? Perhaps, the noise is coming from up there. Oh, no. The girls are napping up there!” She moved quickly for her 47 year old frame and bounded up the wooden staircase. As she reached the room, she could not hear anything. Mom threw open the door. She checked on the five year old first; she was sleeping soundly. Mom brushed the straight black hair from the girl’s face and gently replaced the light blanket over her shoulders. The two year old, as well, appeared to be sleeping soundly. As Mom brushed the light brown hair from the two year old’s forehead she gazed at the child’s steady breathing. When Mom walked across the room to where the crib was, she saw a problem. The baby must have been sleeping fitfully because the worn, pink floral baby blanket was wrapped tightly around the baby’s head. And it appeared that the baby was not breathing.
Mom said a quick prayer and gently unwrapped the blanket. She saw the baby’s tight curly hair was moist, but there was no breathing, and the baby’s skin was not its normal color. Mom stooped to pick up her nine month old. And this time she said a mother’s desperate prayer over her baby; a heartfelt, frantic prayer. The baby gasped. As the baby began to breathe and cry out, Mom held the child close to her breast. She gently rocked the baby back and forth in her arms. She checked for signs of significant damage; neck and head, fingers and toes. She observed the baby’s breathing. Deep breaths – in, out – in, out. The child stretched and yawned comforted by her loving mother. Once the baby returned to sleeping, Mom placed her back in the crib once more.
Mom scanned the room and walked over to the other two children. She placed her gentle hands on each one and checked for breathing. Yes, all three were now breathing and sleeping soundly. Mom sucked in her breath; what was that sound? Wait, what was that sound? It was the quiet steady breaths of her three girls. No wasp, no hornet, no bumble bee, no fzzt, fzzt, whirr of any bee hitting the ceiling. Mom bowed her head and whispered a prayer of thanksgiving. She descended the wooden staircase and seated herself in the old, oak rocker. She returned to her mending. Mom smiled as she listened to the only sound in the room – the quiet beating of her own thankful heart.
For those of you who need an epilogue: There was no wasp. I understand some people will find it difficult to accept this account. But my mom would always say to me, “It was God who sent that sound, so you would be saved. You have a special calling for Him. Choose wisely your steps.” Galatians 1:15 : “But when God, who set me apart from my mother’s womb and called me by his grace….
So much happens to us in our world that can formulate opportunities for discouragement and disillusionment. For Mom, the possible loss of another child offered a formidable challenge to her faith. Still, my mother never wavered in her capacity to trust in God. Both my mother and father embraced life’s obstacles. Trials were their opportunity to understand their faith and they trusted in God’s sovereignty despite the circumstances. Remember my mother’s statement, “You have a special calling…” Well, so do you.
Jeremiah 1:5a (ESV) "Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart."
My mom, Marie, was rocking and mending the family’s torn clothing. With nine children, I cannot imagine she ever reached the bottom of the wicker mending basket. Mom could darn sock holes, sew a torn seam, add recycled jean patches on ripped jeans, and even replace a broken zipper all by hand. This day she was taking time to rock and sew while her three girls; the eldest one five years of age, the middle one in her terrible twos, and the youngest less than nine months old, were all placed in their bedroom to nap.
As I stated, Mom was mending and taking a few moments to think about planning the evening meal. She was strategic with her time; caring for children, cooking meals for seven people, dishes, cleaning, and the list was endless. She was just closing a seam on my father’s red flannel shirt when she heard a sound. It was not a loud sound; something like a wasp flying into a window, bouncing off, hitting the window again and again. Fzzt, fzzt, whirr, fzzt whirr… Mom looked up – no wasp anywhere, not on a window, not on the ceiling. This time, she returned to her mending.
The sound began again, the wasp attempting escape was more persistent – louder in its whirring flight, striking with more velocity, FZZT, FZZT, WHIRR, FZZT, FZZT WHIRR.. Mom looked around the room; she in her rocking chair, mended shirt lying limply in her lap. “Where is that wasp?” she thought. “It must be a large one.” She spied last month’s edition of Good Housekeeping tucked in the crack of the worn tweed couch. “Yes, that will do nicely for a make-shift swatter,” she thought to herself. But, no wasp, no bumble bee, not even a horse fly was in the room, no - not one.
Mom picked up a piece of a toddler’s play clothes; an everyday dress. She stopped to close her eyes, to think, to rest her mind. She had been married 26 years and been pregnant eleven times. Pop and Mom’s first child Wayne Martin was named after her father, a Reading Railroad worker of 50 years. Wayne Martin had died during childbirth. He was delivered at home and the birthing had not gone well. There were complications; the use of forceps, a crushed chest, the breathing had become labored; little – less - nothing1. My father, who had stayed by my mother’s side during the birthing process, left the house and wept so loudly my mother heard him inside the house. “It was then,” she would say, “I knew.”
There it was again. Definitely the loudest the sound had been and the most persistent: Fzzt, fzzt, whirr, fzzt, fzzt, whirr, fzzt, fzzt. Mom heard it as she opened her eyes. Now it sounded like a small swarm of wasps. Over and over again they seemed to hit the ceiling. Louder and louder, faster and faster, the sound increased. Where could they be, nothing on the windows, no sign of the wasps on the ceiling….wait, the ceiling.
Mom replaced the toddler dress in the mending basket. “Unusual,” she thought aloud, “What is above this room? Perhaps, the noise is coming from up there. Oh, no. The girls are napping up there!” She moved quickly for her 47 year old frame and bounded up the wooden staircase. As she reached the room, she could not hear anything. Mom threw open the door. She checked on the five year old first; she was sleeping soundly. Mom brushed the straight black hair from the girl’s face and gently replaced the light blanket over her shoulders. The two year old, as well, appeared to be sleeping soundly. As Mom brushed the light brown hair from the two year old’s forehead she gazed at the child’s steady breathing. When Mom walked across the room to where the crib was, she saw a problem. The baby must have been sleeping fitfully because the worn, pink floral baby blanket was wrapped tightly around the baby’s head. And it appeared that the baby was not breathing.
Mom said a quick prayer and gently unwrapped the blanket. She saw the baby’s tight curly hair was moist, but there was no breathing, and the baby’s skin was not its normal color. Mom stooped to pick up her nine month old. And this time she said a mother’s desperate prayer over her baby; a heartfelt, frantic prayer. The baby gasped. As the baby began to breathe and cry out, Mom held the child close to her breast. She gently rocked the baby back and forth in her arms. She checked for signs of significant damage; neck and head, fingers and toes. She observed the baby’s breathing. Deep breaths – in, out – in, out. The child stretched and yawned comforted by her loving mother. Once the baby returned to sleeping, Mom placed her back in the crib once more.
Mom scanned the room and walked over to the other two children. She placed her gentle hands on each one and checked for breathing. Yes, all three were now breathing and sleeping soundly. Mom sucked in her breath; what was that sound? Wait, what was that sound? It was the quiet steady breaths of her three girls. No wasp, no hornet, no bumble bee, no fzzt, fzzt, whirr of any bee hitting the ceiling. Mom bowed her head and whispered a prayer of thanksgiving. She descended the wooden staircase and seated herself in the old, oak rocker. She returned to her mending. Mom smiled as she listened to the only sound in the room – the quiet beating of her own thankful heart.
For those of you who need an epilogue: There was no wasp. I understand some people will find it difficult to accept this account. But my mom would always say to me, “It was God who sent that sound, so you would be saved. You have a special calling for Him. Choose wisely your steps.” Galatians 1:15 : “But when God, who set me apart from my mother’s womb and called me by his grace….
So much happens to us in our world that can formulate opportunities for discouragement and disillusionment. For Mom, the possible loss of another child offered a formidable challenge to her faith. Still, my mother never wavered in her capacity to trust in God. Both my mother and father embraced life’s obstacles. Trials were their opportunity to understand their faith and they trusted in God’s sovereignty despite the circumstances. Remember my mother’s statement, “You have a special calling…” Well, so do you.
