Mother's Day Story
“When I call to remembrance the genuine faith that is in you, which dwelt first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice, and I am persuaded is in you also.” 2nd Timothy 1:5
The words of the apostle Paul to Timothy have become my favorite Mother’s Day verse. And also the challenge that is set before me. Mom’s Website would not be complete without the story of her own Mom (my grandmother, Martha), who had a huge impact on her life and so many others (including mine).
Martha Washington Davis Chivers would have been 100 years old this past October 15. Her life story is a true inspiration. It is a story of the strongest kind of faith. And a great encouragement for those who are thinking about giving up on faith. I know her story well. I heard it many times as a child. She told it to me as we sat together on the big squeaky glider on her old porch at the house on Main Avenue in West Scranton. It overlooked the neighborhood below, and the distant east mountain. Those were great days. As the oldest of four by the time I was five years old, the time with Martha (Grammie, as I called her) was my favorite. She gave me a ton of one-on-one attention and I kept her company. We were best buddies. On sunny Saturday mornings, I can still hear her singing “heavenly sunshine” while she stood by her kitchen sink and opened the shades to let the sunrise in. When I was seven we moved to Georgia. I was devastated to leave her. But that made her holiday visits and our trips north in the summer all the more enjoyable. When we moved to Delaware in 1977, I would still spend time with her going to town or going down the street to our favorite store of all time --- Woolworth’s (I can still smell the grease from the grill). In 1979 when I was 13, she moved in with us. By then, things began to change. But it was not her who changed --- it was me. Teenagers only seem to have time for themselves, and that was my problem. It wasn’t until years later that I realized how patient she was with me, and how she probably missed our years together on the swing. When she passed away in 1996, it was one of the saddest days for me in a long time. I wondered where those years had gone. And for the next five years, I wondered where life was going. Eventually, it was Martha’s story that pointed me in the right direction. For me, it was a matter of unraveling the mystery of why she was so happy all of those years, when she seemingly didn’t have a reason to be. Let me explain as best as I can remember:
Martha was born in 1906 in a little house that still stands in West Pittston, PA (If you go to the end of Luzerne Avenue, it sits across the street in front of you. At least that is what she told me on our walks back in the early 70s). In 1910, when Martha was four, her mother, Elizabeth Davis, died at age 41 (as a side note, it was passed down that she died from a woman’s disease --- ovarian cancer perhaps?). Martha’s world was tossed into a spiral. The youngest of seven, she was put into an orphanage with her two brothers Sam and Ben. Her father, George Davis, worked long and hard hours for the Lehigh Valley Railroad and could not take care of the younger kids. Things looked up for kids when they were brought home to live with their father and new stepmother and stepsisters. But it was not to be. Martha and Ben told countless stories of how they were abused by the stepmother and mistreated by their stepsisters. In fact, it was so traumatic, she never forgot it. Not even when her Alzheimer’s became fairly severe in her 80s. The relationship at home was so abusive, that she married her crosstown sweetheart Marshall Chivers, as soon as she turned 18. Martha’s childhood experience prepared her for many more trials in the years ahead. She was told that she may never have children, and didn’t for the first several years of her marriage (she would eventually have five, including Linda). She told stories of living through the depression and at times not having food to feed her family. Her husband was often out of work and battled with alcohol, leaving her as a widow at age 58. She lost her closest brother Sam around the same time, when he was hit by a car a few blocks from her house. She took in her brother Ben a few years later, and helped him in his own battle with alcohol. She cleaned houses for a living, spending countless hours on her hands and knees scrubbing floors. And she reported directly to the homeowners for her work --- imagine not just one boss, but five or six. She never finished high school and never went to college. She had her own severe battles with asthma, arthritis, glaucoma, and cataracts.
It sounds like enough to drive anyone insane. But my testimony, and the testimony of most anyone who knew Martha was that she was the happiest, most caring, most giving person that anyone could ever meet.
So about seven years ago, I vowed to find an answer to this mystery of what made my grandmother tick. Why was she so happy, when so many people who had so much more (including me), were not? So I asked my Mom. She missed Martha deeply after she passed away, and was striving herself to preserve her memories by writing down her sayings and passing down stories. I think I put the question to her as, “Mom, given everything that happened to Martha during her life, and given the fact that she had it so bad right from the start, why did she have so much faith?” To which she responded, “Martha told me that after her mother died, she asked her own grandmother how she could see her mom again. The answer she got was ----- your mom has gone to heaven, and if you believe, someday you will be with her again.” Her Bible readings would confirm that lesson over the years (John 14:6). Eighty-five more years to be exact. She didn’t lose faith.
Nine years later, Mom stared down the disease she knew would take her life. She followed in Martha’s footsteps. She didn’t lose faith, either.
So the words of 2 Timothy 1:5 will go through my head again this Mother’s Day and pretty much every day as I face my own battles. And I hope that now that I have been able to share this story with others, that they will remember my heroes as they face battles of their own.
Happy Mother’s Day, Grammie and Mom. I miss you!
