By RaeJean Spencer Hasenoehrl
It’s my mother’s birthday today. She would have been 73 had
a post-operative staph infection not ended her life at the age of 58.
Already this sounds like a sad, heavy-hearted piece, but I don’t
want it to be. Yet there is a part of me missing her today. I’m sure my sister
is feeling it, too.
March 17, 1944. The luck of the Irish brandished itself as
luck for my grandparents. A tiny baby was born too early, too small, too weak.
Luckily, the baby survived the night. Luckily, the nurses and the doctors at
the hospital took good care of the baby. Luckily, the baby continued to fight.
Luckily, she got to go home several days later to a mother and a father who
were too frightened to hope for luck, but prayed for it anyway.
Alta Jean Adams. The name Alta was insisted on by her
grandmother – which grandmother, I’m not sure – and my mother was always a bit
miffed that, as a Utah girl, she had essentially been named after a ski resort.
Mom’s parents weren’t so thrilled with the name of Alta
either, so they called their little girl Jean.
I’ve often wondered if, back in the 40s, baby naming books
were available to guide parents in the baby naming journey. Did my grandparents
know the origin and meaning of their little girl’s name? Jean, Hebrew, “God is
gracious.”
The name couldn’t be more apropos, though I’m sure Mom would
have balked at the idea that she had anything to do with God’s grace.
She was shy, cautious, insecure. In her timid world, she
didn’t see herself with God’s eyes, though she wanted to and, at times, tried
to.
I’m glad for the times she felt and realized God’s grace flowing
within her. When she was proud to say that she’d grown up a hard worker and her
work ethic had enabled her to take on difficult chores and duties when my
father’s health prevented him from performing such tasks. When she saw the
beauty of genetics in her grandchildren – two granddaughters, two grandsons,
all four with hints of her charm. When she realized her own moments of
tenderness – caring for a grandson’s scraped knee and assuring that a grape
popsicle would make the pain go away, bottle feeding scraggly kittens back to
health, calling long distance with “Doctor Mom” tips when my own little girls
were ill, caring for an elderly neighbor.
I can backtrack through time and see so many moments of
service, all provided by my mom, that she never recognized as God’s
graciousness shared by her hands and her words.
Shy. Cautious. Insecure. No, that last word didn’t fit my
mother during her last years on this earth. She had grown away from insecurity
into boldness, courage, determination. The moxie was in her all along, she just
needed a few life adventures to shake it up and let it flow.
Happy birthday, Mom. We're thankful for you, for all that you did, for all that you are.
