The Legacy of Love

Mothering is a long line of love, 
from my mom’s mom (and hers) 
to me, to my children, 
to my daughters and their children— 
a long, strong line that I pass on 
with joy, taking great care 
to keep intact the wisdom, 
courage, TLC and friendship 
that has made our line so rich. 

I am so glad for all she did 
to make me me, 
especially the way her love 
for walking with her Jesus 
radiated quietly from 
how she lived. And loved. 
And worked. And read. 
And prayed. And sang. 
And shared her heart, 
especially when she wrote 
those constant letters, 
daring distance to keep us apart. 
What she passed on 
was wisdom, a treasure. 
And the legacy continues! 

If my mom, Barb Slater, were still alive, she would now be 100. Her birthday was September 30, so my siblings and our mates got together a few days ago to remember her life. And now Glenn and I are on vacation up north at Chalet Shalom, the retirement home in the forest by Piatt lake that Mom and Dad built and loved so much. It is literally full of the aroma of their lives as missionaries in Africa as well as their roots in Michigan. So how could I not find myself thinking even more deeply about the impact Mom had on my personally?

I was the firstborn of her six children, followed by a string of boys and one little sister. So I spent lots of time with her in the kitchen cooking, and doing childcare. She home-schooled me through fourth grade (until ICA, the missionary-children’s boarding school, opened up) and then in eleventh grade (which was not yet offered at ICA). That established close connections and a great appreciation for her teaching ability. I also worked with her at the mission hospital when I could, and was deeply touched by her constant compassion for the premie babies and their mothers and her passion for training new workers. Mom also loved to welcome visitors into our home—I especially treasure the memories of her mother-daughter attachment to a young African pastor’s wife, Anne, and the hours she spent talking with her.

When I ended up returning to that same town, Ferkessédougou, as a missionary coworker, she encouraged me through many challenges. She was my safe place. And she poured loved on my kids. I was passing on to them the freedoms she had given me to run and play in the outdoors and with any kids around, to learn to love Africa and to enjoy creating new things that reflected our “third culture” family dynamics (a hybred blend of two cultures).

Living alongside her in youth and adulthood, she had a deep affect on my spiritual life as well. Until I was 8 years old we were in Congo. There she had a little box of memory vierses that she would drill us in at breakfast. One that became glued to my heart was James 4:8,  “Draw near to God, and he will draw near to you.” As I grew older that became an incentive to pursue knowing him. And as a teen I observed her love of reading Scripture. She was excited to find new translations that spoke to her, like the J.B. Phillip’s New Testament, then the Living Bible. That opened me up to using them and other new translations too, never suspecting that I would end up spending most of my years of ministry in Bible translation!

She would welcome the local missionary community into her living room for a “singspiration” on certain Sunday evenings. We had a piano, so my Aunt Marion would play it while the group chose favorite hymns. I loved singing with them. When one of my brothers asked last week what Mom’s favorite hymn was, another brother and I immediately said, “I come to the garden alone”!

That made me begin to process why she loved it so much, and I think I know.

It was about spending solitary time with her Beloved and the love they shared, hearing his voice as he walked and talked with her. I did often wonder what the last line of the chorus meant: “And the love we share, as we gather there, none other has ever known.”  How could that be, when many people do know God’s love and walk close to him? At last I have understood it to be a way of describing that personal relationship with God that could not be identical for anyone else, since each one of us is a person unlike anyone else. He made us, knows us, loves us, and interacts with who we are. What a precious realization!

Even though I did not realize how it was influencing me, hearing her choose that song so many times and then watching her read and pray, I was becoming increasingly hungry to hear my Lord’s voice too. I longed for that intimacy. It was instrumental in making me excited to take advantage of a special privilege offered to us teens at boarding school: Get up early on Saturday, before the wake-up bell rang, and go outdoors to pray! I learned to love walking in the dewy grass, feeling the morning breeze before the sun heated the day, meditating and praying. Who would have known it would lead to practicing “solitude and silence” as an adult, and writing the poetry that would flow from my heart as I learned to listen to the Voice?

I may not always have a garden to walk in, especially living in  the city as I do now. But I treasure the legacy that has led me to make that “time apart” a priority and opened me up to the possibility that I might actually have conversations with God!

(You can get a taste of my learning curve in my collection of poetry produced over the years, When He Whispers: Learning to Listen on the Journey, available at several marketplaces online.  Some of you readers already have dug in, I know!)

One last thing—here are the verses of Mom’s favorite hymn that keep singing in my heart. It was written in 1912 by C. Austin Miles:

1) I come to the garden alone,
While the dew is still on the roses,
And the voice I hear, falling on my ear,
The Son of God discloses.

Refrain:
And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
And he tells me I am His own,
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.

2) He speaks and the sound of His voice
Is so sweet the birds hush their singing;
And the melody that He gave to me
Within my heart is ringing.