A Lion’s Heart

My mother died this week. A woman of great faith, she is, we know, with the Lord. But she leaves behind her a great emptiness. Joy and sorrow mingled.

Transported in a cattle car during World War II, my mother came to this country a refugee with nothing except a lion’s heart. Standing only 4’10”, she was a tender, vulnerable woman, but gave of that heart generously to family, friends, and strangers alike.

Every Christmas, while she and my father still had the small delicatessen which provided their livelihood, my mother would sign and hand out hundreds of cards to customers. Proud to be an American (but speaking only broken English), my mother offered service and kindness in equal measure – a smile thrown in for free. Everyone to her was simply “honey” or “sweetheart”.

My mother was warned not to try doing business in Harlem, plagued during that era by poverty, crime, racial tension, and widespread heroin addiction. But from the time she was a young girl in Hungary, she had dreamed of working behind a counter. And she loved it. Customers would wave to her as she got off the subway, and keep watch while she walked to the store to make sure she stayed safe. She was my more assertive father’s strength, and was never harmed.

My mother never grew rich, but always called herself a “rich girl”. That meant she was surrounded by those she loved.

Unable to attend school beyond third grade due to the war, my mother encouraged her children in all their endeavors. She believed we could do anything. When I expressed reservations about moving out of state to take a job promotion, she said reassuringly, “Don’t worry, honey. They speak English there.”

Everywhere she went, my mother touched lives. She dissuaded two different people that we know of from committing suicide. She made friends with every patient who ever shared a hospital room with her. Friends of mine came to see her as “their” mother, too.

My mother was enthusiastic about music, and could not resist dancing when given the chance.

Independent and determined (read: stubborn), my mother insisted on doing things her way (“mein vay” as she put it). That approach allowed her to conquer many tasks which frightened or intimidated her. A friend of mine called her a little tank.

That indomitable spirit was finally quelled by illness. Over the past few years, she was repeatedly hospitalized. One crisis followed another, with no rest or relief. The experience battered her. By the end, she was no longer able to dance, no longer able even to stand.

And still my mother’s faith did not falter. If anything, it grew stronger. As my mother saw things, she could not have survived the many trials, over the course of her life, if God had not been by her side.

The lion’s heart has stopped beating. But somewhere my mother is dancing.

In Memory of Mary Waldherr

READERS CAN FIND MY VIEWS ON ABUSE AND ABUSE-RELATED ISSUES AT ANNA WALDHERR A Voice Reclaimed, Surviving Child Abuse  http://www.avoicereclaimed.com