East Flatbush Writer

She may have done it wrong but the message was right.

She’s my mother.  The other three stories so far that I’ve shared are of women who played a significant role in my life,  two of whom were my grandmothers.  But none of those women’s influence exist without this story. 

At 79 years old,  she mostly stays at home,  plagued unfortunately with a host of health-related issues.  I don’t understand them all and conversations about her challenges too many times result in conflict.  I wanted a life with her that requires her to be more active and engaged.  She is struggling sometimes to get through the day.  Exactly a year ago, my mother was hospitalized for two weeks, some of that time was spent in the ICU. It was a scary and emotional time for me.  I experienced moments of loneliness, uncertainty and a few outbursts of tears.  My response to her condition was surprising most to me.  Yvonne and I, not unlike many other mother-daughter relationships,  is in need of some healing.  Striking personality differences and point of views has robbed us of time to make heart- warming memories. 

There were a few nights after being by her bedside that I  realized that she could possibly pass from this world. And it was that realization which forced me to consider the question, what had my mother taught me?

I was raised by my grandparents until the age of 13 years old. It was a home filled with discipline,  high levels of accountability,  unrealistic expectations at times and religion. We attended an Episcopalian church, Holy Trinity on the western part of the Island of Jamaica and it  was there, where I was first introduced  to organized religion.

Across the Atlantic Ocean however, my mother had found Jesus and left religion behind. She had gotten born again and everything else in her life went black.  Her turbulent marriage ended in separation,  she continued to be separated from her children (now my younger brother and l) as my grandparents had gained a foothold in raising us both and when it couldn’t get any worse,  she survived a terrible car accident which left her with enduring physical scars.  Her determination to enforce mandatory service to Jesus Christ was claustrophobic at times. She was passionate,  zealous, unwavering in her belief that the only thing we should do is serve the lord with all our heart and soul. It felt oppressive at times and fostered numerous arguments among our family members.  For me as a child,  it was utterly confusing as I felt that I was being asked to question my solidarity to the Episcopalian church as well as my grandparents.   

My mother treasured above all,  faith in God,  even at the cost of relationships.  Her heavy hand was burdensome at times,  but when I evaluate her motives as a mother of my own children I understand her more.  She just wanted us to personally believe in something bigger than ourselves.  Forty years later,  I find myself conveying a similar message to my own children.  My methods are different as they are rooted in a gentler approach but the desired end result is still the same.  I fell in love with the idea of God in the Jamaican church of my grandparents but I experienced the love of God in the non-denominational church I’ve attended for the past 40 years. 

My personal philosophy is,  that faith in the power of God is the key to life.

There is no profound answer within us, believe me,  I’ve tried to “mine” answers from within. So, I’ll always appreciate that even though my mother may have done it wrong,  the motive and message was right.