Lost but Not Forgotten

I always knew when my mother was going to tell me another part of the story, not just any story, but her story. She would get a pained far away look in her eyes as though she were looking into another place and time. Her voice would start to tremble and sometimes her eyes would become misty. The story did not unfold in order, but in random parts that over time fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. I never quite knew what triggered any telling of the story at all, but I believe it had something to do with wanting me to know how blessed I was — that life could be much worse than it was, should I ever think it was treating me unfairly. Other times, I think it resulted from my curiosity about her childhood and the questions I would ask.

I always knew I would hear the telling and retelling of certain parts of the story when we visited my Aunt Jo, my mother’s sister. My Aunt Jo’s voice would begin to tremble even more than my mom’s and the story would always end in tears. I can still hear my mother saying, “I named all of my dolls Josephine.” And my Aunt Jo would respond that she had felt so bad that she had kept my mother’s doll clothes because she couldn’t give them back. This conversation surfaced many times over the years because these two sisters had lost one another at a very young age. My mother was five years old and my aunt Jo (as we called her) was eight years old when they were separated. They were not to be reunited for many years, yet they had never forgotten one another.

My mother’s life story is filled with personal loss, rejection, and adversity, but God had not forgotten her either. He protected her, guided her and revealed Himself to her. Ultimately, the story was not so much her story, but God’s. So this is the retelling of the story, as it came together over the years. Some parts were not told until I started writing her story, and other parts will never be known.