This baby, however, was very premature, especially for back in 1932. There was something wrong with his heart; and his skin - oh, his skin was non-existent. It appeared that he was covered with fish-like scales.
The nurses in the delivery room wouldn't bring the baby to his mother. She was told that she wouldn't want to see "it"; that it was going to die anyway and so there was no point in getting more upset.
The young mother demanded: "Bring me my baby!"
And finally, reluctantly, after the doctor was consulted, the nurses did.
He was wrapped in cotton batting because his flesh was so fragile. And when she saw him, she loved him with all her heart.
"God," she prayed, "If You will spare my baby's life, I will give him back to You to serve You."
God heard the prayer of that anguished mother, and my Dad lived.
He was not allowed to cry for the first weeks of his life - something to do with too much strain on his weak heart.
He was always small, but he loved to work. He was his Dad's shadow. He could ride a horse almost from when he could walk, and he and his brother Clark could drive a team at about the age of nine.
He started school early. He was younger than everyone else, and he was so little anyway, and he didn't want the teacher to forget about him; so each morning when the class stood for the singing of the National Anthem and the reciting of the Lord's Prayer, he would stick his stomach out as far as he could, hoping he would occupy more space that way, hoping his teacher would remember how much he loved school.
And at home, his Mom would be waiting to hear the events of the day. More children were being added to the crew, however, and her time was at a premium.
No electricity.
No running water.
Wood stove for heating and cooking.
Outhouse across the yard.
Eight children.
She worked alongside her husband until the elder kids were able to take over a bit. She cooked, cleaned, gardened, canned, baked, sewed, washed clothes, hung them to dry, ironed, scrimped and saved, disciplined, loved.
On days that her boys had to work extra hard and as a result were more famished than ever, she was somehow "just not hungry." One of her younger daughters reckons that there was many a day Mom was actually starving; but she would not deprive her children.
Allan, her third child, developed a passion for boxing. She went along with it. She got up earlier than ever to ensure he had a good breakfast after chores and before he went out to train. His heart healed because of all that training. In his last visits to his pulmonologist's office, they were always amazed at how strong his heart was. It was his heart that carried him for the extra time we had with him.
Then came the day he decided that what God was calling him to was Bible college in Calgary.
She helped him get ready.
Now he wasn't home in the summers; he worked the oil patch to make money for school. One day he received time off and so decided he would hitch a ride back to The Farm to surprise his folks. He told no one he was coming. He just started walking, sticking out his thumb when a vehicle approached.
Not one stopped.
He walked all that afternoon and into the night. He had on his new work boots, which rubbed his feet raw.
He finally arrived at The Farm after 2:30 in the morning. Everything was dark. Even the dog didn't stir.
He clutched the railing and dragged himself up the steps to the house, easing the door open as quietly as he could. He knew what a precious commodity a good night's sleep was.
From the dark came a voice: "Is that you, Allan?"
She got up, stoked the embers in the stove and boiled some water for tea. She knelt in front of him and eased those boots off, carefully removed the socks and tenderly bathed those burning, bleeding feet.
Then came the day when he announced he was being led by God to go to India. India! His Dad had something to say about that!
His Mom ... squared her shoulders and helped him pack: books, clothes, whatever she thought he might need in this strange unknown land, into metal barrels to be shipped to Bombay.
When he left she kissed him goodbye and went back into the house. He caught a train from Calgary heading south to Port Arthur, Texas, from where he would sail. He wouldn't see her again for ten years.
And at home? The rest of the story was told to Dad and me by his second youngest sibling, Mabel, the very last time she visited him on this earth, just weeks before he passed away.
Mabel and her younger sister were attending school in Castor. Mom told them that this was a regular school day and they had to go. They dragged their mournful little selves off and somehow got through the day.
When they got home that frigid January evening, something was off. The house was in darkness. No Mom to greet them and ask about their day. They crept into the house and bumped into their Dad. He was carrying a china cup and saucer filled with steaming, aromatic tea.
Their Dad was never home while there was work to be done.
Their Dad never made tea.
"Your Mom's had a rough day," he commented briefly as he disappeared into their bedroom and closed the door softly behind him.
The two little girls sat there at a loss, not knowing what to do. Mom never had rough days! She was Mom - she made rough days better!
About half an hour later she emerged from her room, pale, face streaked with tears. She stopped when she saw her two little daughters sitting in the gloom. Then she squared her shoulders and her jaw. "It's been a difficult day," she said. And she set to mopping the floor.
Tears ran down the creases of my Dad's cheeks as Mabel concluded the story. "She never let on," he whispered.
"She never wanted to hold you back," Mabel replied gently.
And then Mabel passed on advice that her mother gave her when Mabel had her first child. When things seem to be tough and your heart is breaking and your tears are flowing, wash the floor. Your tears will mingle with the soapy water and you will feel better and the floor will be clean.
"It works," said Mabel.
Every year our Nana would send us a Christmas parcel: a can of Spam, a tin of Roger's Golden Syrup, a cake mix, some Jello, the large block of Velveeta cheese. Christmas candies would fill the corners. There would be a letter and a card. That was the best part of all. She prayed for her boy every day. She never stopped caring; she had to give her worries to God or she would have gone crazy.
So many years later, our Dad surprised her once more by suddenly appearing in the doorway of the hospital room where his frail mother lay. She thought she was seeing things, and covered her face with her blanket ... They spent hours together talking, laughing, catching up.
It was during this visit that she told him about the circumstances surrounding his birth, about how she had dedicated him to serve God if God would give his life to her.
No wonder she was his first love!
He spoke at her funeral.
And I recall that every time he was ever asked to pray for someone on their birthday, he would always thank God for that person's mother, for the one who gave life and love to her child. Even when the circumstances were bleak, he would say, "Your mother did the best she knew how at the time for you."
On his own birthday, he always had a special prayer of thanksgiving for his Mom.
Today, they are together celebrating. Do you think they have pie in heaven? Uncle Clark said Mom always gave Allan the largest piece of lemon meringue pie. I wonder if the three of them are checking out the size of the pieces ...
Today he's not here to thank God for his Mom, my Nana, and so I do in his stead:
Thank You, gracious God, for this brave, stalwart, godly woman. Thank You for her quiet courage. Thank You that she kept her word to You given back on September 4, 1932. Thank You for the impact her decision has made on countless lives carrying on even today.
Thank You for truly great mothers.
Amen.
He was always small, but he loved to work. He was his Dad's shadow. He could ride a horse almost from when he could walk, and he and his brother Clark could drive a team at about the age of nine.
He started school early. He was younger than everyone else, and he was so little anyway, and he didn't want the teacher to forget about him; so each morning when the class stood for the singing of the National Anthem and the reciting of the Lord's Prayer, he would stick his stomach out as far as he could, hoping he would occupy more space that way, hoping his teacher would remember how much he loved school.
And at home, his Mom would be waiting to hear the events of the day. More children were being added to the crew, however, and her time was at a premium.
 |
With her eldest son, Gordon,
on the steps of The Farm.
Feisty until the end!
|
No running water.
Wood stove for heating and cooking.
Outhouse across the yard.
Eight children.
She worked alongside her husband until the elder kids were able to take over a bit. She cooked, cleaned, gardened, canned, baked, sewed, washed clothes, hung them to dry, ironed, scrimped and saved, disciplined, loved.
On days that her boys had to work extra hard and as a result were more famished than ever, she was somehow "just not hungry." One of her younger daughters reckons that there was many a day Mom was actually starving; but she would not deprive her children.
Allan, her third child, developed a passion for boxing. She went along with it. She got up earlier than ever to ensure he had a good breakfast after chores and before he went out to train. His heart healed because of all that training. In his last visits to his pulmonologist's office, they were always amazed at how strong his heart was. It was his heart that carried him for the extra time we had with him.
Then came the day he decided that what God was calling him to was Bible college in Calgary.
She helped him get ready.
Now he wasn't home in the summers; he worked the oil patch to make money for school. One day he received time off and so decided he would hitch a ride back to The Farm to surprise his folks. He told no one he was coming. He just started walking, sticking out his thumb when a vehicle approached.
Not one stopped.
He walked all that afternoon and into the night. He had on his new work boots, which rubbed his feet raw.
He finally arrived at The Farm after 2:30 in the morning. Everything was dark. Even the dog didn't stir.
He clutched the railing and dragged himself up the steps to the house, easing the door open as quietly as he could. He knew what a precious commodity a good night's sleep was.
From the dark came a voice: "Is that you, Allan?"
She got up, stoked the embers in the stove and boiled some water for tea. She knelt in front of him and eased those boots off, carefully removed the socks and tenderly bathed those burning, bleeding feet.
Then came the day when he announced he was being led by God to go to India. India! His Dad had something to say about that!
His Mom ... squared her shoulders and helped him pack: books, clothes, whatever she thought he might need in this strange unknown land, into metal barrels to be shipped to Bombay.
When he left she kissed him goodbye and went back into the house. He caught a train from Calgary heading south to Port Arthur, Texas, from where he would sail. He wouldn't see her again for ten years.
And at home? The rest of the story was told to Dad and me by his second youngest sibling, Mabel, the very last time she visited him on this earth, just weeks before he passed away.
Mabel and her younger sister were attending school in Castor. Mom told them that this was a regular school day and they had to go. They dragged their mournful little selves off and somehow got through the day.
When they got home that frigid January evening, something was off. The house was in darkness. No Mom to greet them and ask about their day. They crept into the house and bumped into their Dad. He was carrying a china cup and saucer filled with steaming, aromatic tea.
Their Dad was never home while there was work to be done.
Their Dad never made tea.
"Your Mom's had a rough day," he commented briefly as he disappeared into their bedroom and closed the door softly behind him.
The two little girls sat there at a loss, not knowing what to do. Mom never had rough days! She was Mom - she made rough days better!
About half an hour later she emerged from her room, pale, face streaked with tears. She stopped when she saw her two little daughters sitting in the gloom. Then she squared her shoulders and her jaw. "It's been a difficult day," she said. And she set to mopping the floor.
Tears ran down the creases of my Dad's cheeks as Mabel concluded the story. "She never let on," he whispered.
"She never wanted to hold you back," Mabel replied gently.
And then Mabel passed on advice that her mother gave her when Mabel had her first child. When things seem to be tough and your heart is breaking and your tears are flowing, wash the floor. Your tears will mingle with the soapy water and you will feel better and the floor will be clean.
"It works," said Mabel.
Every year our Nana would send us a Christmas parcel: a can of Spam, a tin of Roger's Golden Syrup, a cake mix, some Jello, the large block of Velveeta cheese. Christmas candies would fill the corners. There would be a letter and a card. That was the best part of all. She prayed for her boy every day. She never stopped caring; she had to give her worries to God or she would have gone crazy.
So many years later, our Dad surprised her once more by suddenly appearing in the doorway of the hospital room where his frail mother lay. She thought she was seeing things, and covered her face with her blanket ... They spent hours together talking, laughing, catching up.
It was during this visit that she told him about the circumstances surrounding his birth, about how she had dedicated him to serve God if God would give his life to her.
No wonder she was his first love!
He spoke at her funeral.
And I recall that every time he was ever asked to pray for someone on their birthday, he would always thank God for that person's mother, for the one who gave life and love to her child. Even when the circumstances were bleak, he would say, "Your mother did the best she knew how at the time for you."
On his own birthday, he always had a special prayer of thanksgiving for his Mom.
Today, they are together celebrating. Do you think they have pie in heaven? Uncle Clark said Mom always gave Allan the largest piece of lemon meringue pie. I wonder if the three of them are checking out the size of the pieces ...
Today he's not here to thank God for his Mom, my Nana, and so I do in his stead:
Thank You, gracious God, for this brave, stalwart, godly woman. Thank You for her quiet courage. Thank You that she kept her word to You given back on September 4, 1932. Thank You for the impact her decision has made on countless lives carrying on even today.
Thank You for truly great mothers.
Amen.
