Today, our family joined many wonderful friends at Pelham Road Baptist Church to remember and give thanks for my mother's life. This is the message I shared as part of the service.
A
Gift and a Miracle
Life is a gift and
a miracle. My life began in the body
that lies before us, the body of my mother, Sara Eunice Hester Vaughan. Some of you would have no trouble believing that
doctors did not approve my being born. After
Debbie, my sister, came into this world, mom suffered a series of miscarriages,
one a set of twins, with dangerous medical complications. Her doctors advised her to enjoy her precious
daughter and take care of her health.
Suffice it to say that Barry and I are here today because our mother
didn't always listen. She didn't want
Deb to be an only child. She wanted
girls and boys in the family circle, so with great determination, at great
risk, with long intervals of failure and disappointment in between, I was born
six years after Debbie and Barry entered the world seven years after me.
Every mother risks her life in giving life. I owe my existence to a mother who took a
greater than usual risk because she had a greater than usual desire for a large
family. The way she gave us life I spite
of medical challenges was truly a miracle.
Challenge was nothing new to her. Born in 1925, a fact not firmly established
for many years, she was a child of the Great Depression. Her father, a graduate of Clemson College and
a veteran of World War I, William Robert Hester, Sr. worked in his trained
field of horticulture, ran a country store, cut hair, and did anything else he
could do to support their large hungry family.
My mom was blessed with three sisters; Frances, Vera and Thelma, and
bore the burden of two brothers, Bill and Jack.
Keeping a promise made to a dying friend, my grandparents welcomed a
seventh child into their home to raise, my wonderful Aunt Ellen.
There wasn't much to share, but share they did. My Uncle Jack tells a beautiful story of a
Christmas at which Will and Lula gathered their children around them, gave them
each a single orange, and explained that was the only material thing they would
receive that Christmas. They added a
promise that their children would receive more love than they imagined
possible. They kept that promise.
Along with the blessing of that love, mom also bore some
of the scars of those tough times. She
never threw anything away. I have
cleaned out more than 150 old gift boxes from her attic, some dating back to
Ivey’s and Myers-Arnold stores. She had
enough plastic butter tubs to preserve an army’s leftovers. She watched every penny. She turned off lights, turned down
thermostats and piled up the blankets.
As a child, I couldn't have rolled off my bed had I wanted to. Those tough years made her strong and
wise. But the Great Depression was only
one force that shaped my mother’s life.
If you ever wonder if God has a sense of humor, think
about this: Will Hester, as my grandfather was often called, was working tirelessly
to put at least a little food in the mouths of his wife and seven little ones
when God called him into a line of work known for great pay, short hours, low
stress, and high levels of customer satisfaction. God called my grandfather to be a pastor. You can’t understand my mom unless you know
she was a preacher’s kid.
Really she was more than that. She and her brothers and sisters were junior
partners in the family ministry. When
God called Will to preach, God called the Hesters to support his ministry. My mother and my Aunts Frances and Vera
formed the first Hester Sisters’ Trio.
They sang in the churches their father pastored, followed him to provide
special music in revival meetings, and sang through much of the summer under
what my grandfather called his “big gospel tent.” My grandfather, being a pianist, a singer,
and a composer, knew good music and bad notes when he heard them, so mom put in
many hours of rehearsal at home around the family piano, preparing to give God
her very best. Later, when Frances
married Horace and was granted “maternity leave” from the trio, my Aunt Thelma
stepped up to fill the void and the Hester sisters were on the road again.
My grandfather had no use for Christians who sang the
songs of Zion but lived the life of Sodom and Gomorrah. He demanded that all his children live above
reproach. And, being a barber who had
heard what some men said about some women, he was especially strict with his
daughters. Mom came to measure her life
by high standards of holiness but also, sadly, by the opinions of sometimes
highly critical church members. She
would tell you that she spent much of her life too concerned about what other
people think.
But one of the many good things that came out of my mom’s
deep involvement in the church was that she always had a strong intuitive sense
of how church worked. When I talked to
her face to face or even by telephone, she saw through my shallow reports of
“everything going just fine” and called out some of the challenges she knew I must
be facing. I never wanted to worry her
with church pettiness or politics, but time and again, I found in her a wise
listener who understood my life in ministry as well as anyone. You can’t fool your mama, and especially your
preacher’s kid mama asking you about your church. But, as I learned, the bond a mother has with
her child goes far beyond even that.
One evening, a few years ago, Debbie was pushing Mom’s
wheelchair down the hall at National Health Care. Mom had finished dinner and would soon be
ready for bed. As they rolled along, out
of nowhere, Mom suddenly turned her head around and said to Debbie, with deep
urgency, “Something is happening to your
brother. I need to check on him.” Then she named the crisis she felt I was
facing. Though she had no way of knowing what was happening in the other end of
the county and though she lived in the constant fog of dementia, my mother knew
exactly what was happening to her child and exactly when. I can’t explain it, other than to say, a
mother’s love and the bond she shares with her children is a gift and a
miracle.
Before you decide my Mom grew up in some kind of Baptist
boot camp, you also need to know that, in her family circle, she was a clown in
a circus with many clowns.
Determined to learn how to drive, she started up a family
truck her dad used in his business. She
got it moving and drove past the front of her house in celebration. When she drove by the second time, she called
out, as I remember it, to Jack and Bill on the porch, that she couldn't figure
out how to make it stop. They laughed,
waved back, and wished her good luck.
She orbited the house many many more times, asking more earnestly for
driving help but receiving nothing but a wave and a brotherly laugh, until,
finally, the truck did stop, completely out of gas. She mastered the use of the brake pedal soon
after that.
Mom was a comedian, never funnier than these past few
years. Our family had come to National
Health Care to visit her. One of the
topics of conversation was our daughter Elizabeth’s pregnancy and our
excitement over a grandchild coming. A
little while later, when our attention turned to something on television, I was
standing close beside Mom’s bed. I
glanced at her and realized she was staring at my stomach. She got a spark in her eye that should have
warned me one of her lines was coming.
She reached out her hand, rubbed my belly, and said, “Are you trying to keep up with
Elizabeth?”
I don’t know much about her dating life. I do remember hearing the names of a few
suitors from the past. About sixteen
years ago, I met one, a now-married grandfather who had wanted to be mom’s
boyfriend when they worked together in the 1940s at Steel Heddle
Manufacturing. All those years later, as
he asked me about her, I could tell he was still smitten with her. I felt like the father of a teenage daughter,
sizing up a guy who wanted to ask her out.
I was well into adulthood before I realized what a beautiful woman my
mother really was. The man who always
felt blessed beyond measure to have won her heart and her hand in marriage was
my dad, Orin Vaughan.
Late in his life, Dad opened his heart to me and told me
how deeply he cherished his Eunice. He
had just returned from World War II, the mopping up operations in the Pacific
theater and the occupation of Germany.
He feared that while he was far away from home serving his country, all
of the “good girls” as he put it, had been taken and he would never find the
right woman to marry. He told me how
very blessed he felt to meet Eunice and to see their love grow into
marriage. He cherished her as a gift
from God and saw their life together as a miracle. When Papa Hester heard my dad sing, he decided
that he hadn’t lost a daughter, he had gained a tenor. Dad was quickly drafted into the family choir
and sang many a trio with my mother and my grandfather on the radio, recording
the program at 6:30 a.m. on the way to work.
They began married life “poor as Job’s turkey,” as Mom would say, renting a couple of rooms
from relatives on West Elford Street in downtown Greenville. They saved their pennies, literally, and
dreamed of a home of their own. In 1951,
that dream came true as they purchased what my dad’s father labeled, “the green house on the red hill.” His words weren't reversed. Their little mansion at 110 Griffin Drive
stood on several feet of green-painted cinder blocks, rising out of the red
Carolina clay. Mom never called another
place home. And she worked hard to make
it home for us.
Mom saw home as a
gift and a miracle.
Mom saw homemaking as a high calling, a ministry to the
next generation. When we left home in
the mornings to go to school, she saw us off.
When we returned, she was there.
I know now she had to set aside her business school training and her
enjoyment of the workplace to focus her life on home and family. That was a sacrifice she lovingly made for
us. I know the world has changed since I
was a child. I know one-income families
and stay-at-home spouses are rare. But I
fear sometimes that we are building bigger barns and losing the souls of our
families. I’m glad my mom chose to be at
home. She gave me some great memories.
I remember sitting on top of the washing machine, crammed
into our tiny galley kitchen, watching her cook. I especially loved the pressure-cooker and
way it spewed out steam and rattled in a metallic rhythm every minute or
so.
I followed her on hands and knees as she vacuumed the
house with an Electrolux Model XXX, with little swinging louvers on the back
that reminded me of the saloon doors of a western movie. I followed her, sticking plastic cowboys and
Indians inside those doors, then opening them to see the exhaust shoot them
across the room.
But my favorite memory of my stay-at-home Mom happened in
the middle of a long feverish night. After
contracting Rubella as an infant and a fever so high, it sent me into seizures,
I was in danger of seizures any time I ran a fever. As a child, I was a strep magnet. I had it
again and had been put to bed with medicine for the fever, antibiotics, and a
medicine to fight off seizures. I awoke
in the middle of the night, tossing and turning with fever when, out of the
corner of my eye, in my room lit only by a nightlight, I saw my mother sitting
in a straight-back chair, like one of London’s Beef-eaters standing guard at the
palace, watching me, ready to help me through the long night of sickness. I’ll never forget the feeling of peace that
came over me and how loved I felt seeing her there.
I thought about that experience a few nights ago as now I
sat by her bed in the middle of the night.
I haven’t done that very often, but for the past six years, my Mom has
known the joy and peace of awakening from illness or confusion or fear to find
someone sitting beside her bed, standing watch over her, guarding the goodness
of her life. That someone is my sister, Debbie. Deb I love you and honor you for the way you
have so sacrificially loved our mother.
Mom wasn't good at every part of running a home. Her efforts to discipline us were an ongoing
joke. Sometimes, in a moment of
frustration, she would chase us with one of dad’s black leather belts (I don’t know why black sounded more painful
than brown, but it did). The belt
was a worthy tool of discipline, but not the way she held it. She chased us, well, Barry and me, while
gripping the belt so close to the end that she left only six or eight inches
with which to spank. First, she couldn't
reach us. Second, when she did, it
didn't hurt, at all. We laughed until we
cried. We cried when dad got home and
used the rest of belt.
Mom was a great cook, but she had some memorable culinary
miscalculations. One of the first cakes
she made was for a family gathering. The
cake looked great and people hurried to get a slice to round off their
meal. The problem was, the longer people
chewed this cake, the bigger it got in their mouths. People asked for the specifics of her recipe,
perhaps to imitate it, or to tell the doctor at the emergency room later. My mom, believing that if a little is good,
more must be better, had put a dozen eggs into one cake. The legend of that cake has grown more than
the cake itself did in the mouths of Mom’s family.
Then there was the ice cream churn. Mom and Dad gathered with fellow choir
members for a summer church choir picnic social. Back in those days, real men churned the ice
cream by hand, sitting in a circle of folding lawn chairs, talking over world
affairs and swapping stories while the women, well, did everything else. After a few stories and laughs, some of the
churns were fighting back, so those men, having completed their course, stood
up, put the white towel on top of the churn, and went off to do something else
helpful, like play horseshoes. Dad’s
churn was still turning easily, so he pressed on. Only when he found himself the last man in
the churning circle, did my Dad begin to think something was wrong. “Eunice,”
he called. “What did you put in this ice-cream churn?” She talked through the recipe, probably
pointing out how few eggs she used, and sure enough, everything that was needed
was there for homemade ice cream. Dad,
now totally confused, took the churn apart, opened the cylinder, and said, “Eunice, I’m afraid you did leave something
out—the dasher.” That story is
repeated every time an ice cream churn comes into view.
Mom believed that worship is a gift and a miracle. And she prepared all three of us, her
children, to play a part in that holy work.
Barry, Debbie, and I have all been told, at one time or
another, “You resemble your mother.” We’re proud to hear that. But as I’ve thought about my Mom and the
three of us who are her children, I think she on part of her gift for worship
to each of us.
My mom was a
pianist. She received some formal
training, but not nearly what you’d give a student today. She didn't often play for crowds. She liked to close the door of our living
room, sit at the piano, and make it her personal altar. The music she played was an offering of
prayer and praise. Debbie, that part of
Mom lives so beautifully in you. You
play here every Sunday, as you've done since this church met in a house, to
share your worship with others. And
you've taught hundreds of students how to play so they may add the power of
music to their lives.
Mom was a singer. She grew up singing with her family, in the
Hester Sisters’ Trio, in church, in revivals, in school. I saw her sing in our church choir and
ensembles. Barry, you are the
singer. From a young age, your voice has
touched and blessed others in many churches, in many styles of music, in many important
life moments. I know you believe you've
yelled so much as a coach, you can no longer sing, but I hope that’s not
so. That part of Mom lives on in you and
can continue to bless all of us.
Deb got the piano, Barry the voice, but I got the ham. Believe me when I say my Mom loved drama. Our
mother knew, long before the idea became popular in churches, that drama brings
power and effectiveness to worship. I
never saw her on stage, but always as the director, creating a vision, choosing
characters, enlisting helpers, encouraging strugglers, and raising an event as
she raised her children until it was mature and ready to live. She used drama to make the story of Lottie
Moon so real I could’ve believed Lottie attended our church. Mom took us to the Upper Room and the Last
Supper as we joined the disciples in asking if we betray Jesus when He needs us
most. When I come to worship and portray
a character, or wear a costume, or do something unusual to make a message
memorable, that is her blood in my veins and part of my proud inheritance.
For the past five-and-a-half years, Mom has lived at
National Health Care in Mauldin. Our
family is grateful to those who cared for her there so tenderly. She was there because a stroke weakened her
body and the bright colors of her mind were fading. She lost all sense of time. Some days, I was her son, others her brother,
still others just someone she loved. But
she was content. And even dementia was,
in its own way, a gift. If you knew my
mother well, you knew that she sometimes suffered from emotional ups and downs
that burdened her life and complicated her relationships. I had to spend a season in my own dark valley
before I began to understand the enemy she faced. In this last season of her life, God gave us
an unexplainable unexpected blessing.
When mom’s mind got a little smaller, her shackles fell off. These last years, she was freer to love and
be loved, to embrace life and enjoy it than I have ever seen. The last words she spoke to me were, “I really love you.” In all things, God is working for good. In God’s hands, even illness can be a gift
and a miracle.
Even while celebrating all I and others have shared, I
stand upon this one truth,
Eternal life is a gift and a miracle.
My mother is in heaven, but not because she or I or
anyone else can make the case that she’s good enough for God. She received eternal life from Jesus Christ
the way I received life from her, as a priceless personal gift, costly to the
giver, miraculous in its results. You
can receive the gift by giving your life and entrusting your destiny to
Jesus. And if you receive the gift, you
will share the miracle.
Friday evening, I stood by my mom’s bed, knowing I had to
leave Greenville and go home. I had the
flu or it had me and I had no business around such vulnerable people as nursing
home residents. I held my mother’s face
in my hands, hoping she could hear one last thing I wanted to say. I kissed her burning forehead and whispered,
“Thank you for my life.”
And, today, I say, “Mom, thank you for your
life, for in the sunshine and the storms, the laughter and the tears, the complexity
and humanity of it all, your life has been a gift and a miracle.”
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