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Special Treat ??“ Jaye Lewis

Nov 29, 2005

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Welcome Home
by Jaye Lewis

It was not long after we moved from Florida to Louisville,
Kentucky, in 1958, that my Dad was caught embezzling from
his company.

The story goes,that he had taken the money to move his
family up to Louisville, and he was paying it back, little
by little.

When the company auditors arrived, my Dad, being the honest
person he was, refused to doctor the books to save himself,
and he just waited to?  take a licking, which meant the loss
of his job and the impoverishment of his family. Supposedly,
the authorities were so impressed with his honesty, that
they decided to just let him go, without criminal charges.

At the age of eleven I found this very confusing. He was
without a job, because he did something wrong, and he was
too proud to go on welfare, so we went hungry. We ate until
the food ran out. My Dad was able to find a job at a diner,
but we had two weeks to wait before he would see a paycheck.

The food supplies were rationed for over a week. Each meal
became smaller and smaller. We lost weight, especially my
mother, and I can't help but wonder just how much she
sacrificed for me.

I'll never forget that last meal. Hard biscuits, chicken
gizzards and livers -- I hated that stuff-- and rice. Oh
yes, there was that lovely dessert of canned pie cherries
and chocolate syrup made with cocoa, water, and a small
amount of spilled sugar that was brushed from a shelf. It
was just awful! I refused to eat anything but the rice.
My brother was glad to eat my gizzards and livers, but I
had such a small amount of rice, that my plate was nearly
empty.

My mother looked at my plate, then she quickly scooped up
all her rice and put it onto my plate. Then she picked out
all her chicken livers and gizzards and distributed them
around the table to my father and brother. I was so ignorant
of her pain that I wish now I could go back and tell my
mother just how heroic I believe she was.

"I'm so stuffed! she lied. I picked while I was fixing supper,
and now, I'm just not hungry. You go ahead and eat this. I
don t want it."

It was our last meal for two days. We had already pulled in
our belts, and now there was nothing left to pull in.

The next day, my Dad went to work. He ate at the diner, so
there would be one less mouth to feed, but there was still
no food in our house. That was a hard day. I would have done
anything for a sandwich.

I didn't understand, at the time, where the food went. I
remember a terrible empty feeling and a stomach that ached
to be filled. The ache turned into a gnawing pain, and my
mother became terribly anxious. She begged my father to let
her go to the church, so she could ask for money. But my
father was proud. He wouldn't accept charity, and I never
understood his pride.

Finally, after two days without food, my Dad agreed to ask
his new boss for an advance on his pay. He came home with a
five-dollar bill. Five dollars would feed us inadequately
for a week if we were careful.

I believed that if I went with my mother and brother to buy
the food, I could control the outcome. I begged and pleaded,
but to no avail. So, when I was ignored, I flew into a rage.
Perhaps it was the hunger speaking. Perhaps I thought I could
control how the money was spent.

My Dad drank, and everyone in my family smoked, except for
me. In my childish ignorance about addiction, I resented
every beer and cigarette that ever came into our house, and
I guess I hated them a little for needing such things.

My Mom and brother returned with bologna, bread, milk, a jar
of instant coffee, and a pack of cigarettes. I knew it! I just
knew that they would buy cigarettes! I was so angry about that
pack of cigarettes.

In spite of warnings, I wolfed down a sandwich and a glass of
milk. When that food hit my empty stomach, it recoiled. Instant
agonizing pain! I screamed! I grabbed my stomach, and rolled
on the floor, half blind with pain. I just kept screaming. I'll
never forget the terror in my mother s eyes. Finally, I threw
up all over the floor! There was relief as my stomach emptied,
but I was in bed for days.

Somehow, miraculously, my mother got extra food. I was put on
a diet consisting of soft boiled eggs and dry toast. I never
knew if she went to the church or if angels showed up at our
door. Knowing my mother, I wouldn't be a bit surprised about
either possibility. It took me over a week to recover.

One day, while I was still recovering, there was a knock at
the front door. My mother hurried down the inside stairs and
opened the door. My bedroom door was just above the landing.

"Excuse me, ma am, said the man, in a quavering voice. Do you
have some food you can share with me? I've been walking and
walking, and no one can spare even a piece of bread."

There was a long pause. Curious, I tiptoed out of bed and
peeked down the stairs. My mother's face looked pale, and
she was so thin.

"I'm so sorry, she said, shaking her head. We don t have any
food to share." She pointed her finger, in the direction of
town. "Try the restaurant, down the block. Surely, they will
have enough to spare."

The man shook his head, sadly, and turned away. I watched,
as my mother slowly shut the door. She stood there awhile,
with her face pressed against the glass. Her shoulders began
to shake. I thought she was laughing, but when she turned to
come up the stairs, I saw her tears. I tiptoed back to bed,
and I never breathed a word about it. I can still hear the
sound of my mother's sobbing, as she sat on the stairs.

"I've missed Jesus!" she sobbed. "I've missed my Lord. He
came to my door begging, and I've turned him away!"

She sat there for a long time, my mother in her sorrow. I
had never doubted her love for Jesus. I knew that whatever
she did for the least of these, she did for Him, and now
she had to turn the least of these away. I'd seen her in
terrible circumstances. I'd seen her reach into empty
pockets and give away all she had. I d seen her angry.
I'd seen her on her knees, but I had never seen her cry,
until that day.

Something left my mother that day. I believe it was hope.
Little by little, I watched her slip away from me through
the years. She still loved Jesus, and she clung to Him,
like a drowning woman. She could still be a force to reckon
with, but she quit the fight too soon.

I didn't understand then, but I never forgot. When God's
grace began its pull upon my life, I remembered, and I
decided to allow Him to change my course.

Years later, after I got tired of being battered in my
marriage, I made the choice to change, at first for my
children, then for myself. I left my husband, and I never
went back. Each time I felt as though life would overcome
me, I would remember my mother's defeat, and I refused
to give in.

The best part of my journey is that God never gave up on
me. He drew me to Him, and He convinced me that, as I
trusted in Him, He would change me. Somewhere inside of
me, He found courage, and through His grace, I began to
change.

I do not blame my mother for the defeat she suffered on
this earth. She was from another time, when women had few
options. Knowing what I know of her life, I realize that
she didn't know she ever had any.

My mother, Margaret died in October of 1982. She would
be the first to tell you that she never accomplished much.
I would disagree, because I would not be here without her,
and I would not choose to miss my memories of her.

There were no accolades. She was buried in a plain pine
box. A woman of simple tastes, she would have wanted it
that way. She made mistakes. She was not perfect, but she
clung to her faith.

I have no doubt that my mother was joyful to be able to
cast off the things of this world. She must have run into
the arms of her Savior. I can almost hear His words as He
greeted her, "You re safe now, Margaret. Welcome home..."

--Jaye Lewis? ? ? ?  jayelewis@comcast.net
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Jaye is an award winning writer and contributing author
for the Chicken Soup for the Soul series. Jaye lives with
her family in the mountains of Virginia. Jaye's website
can be visited at: www.entertainingangels.org.(http://www.entertainingangels.org)
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