I Must Tell Jesus

I came caterwauling into the world in 1951 and exited high school in the spring 1969. For all but four of those years, home for me was Greenfield, Illinois — halfway between St. Louis, MO and Springfield, IL.

Mom delivered me at a hospital in Rolla, Missouri but our family moved from the Ozarks to Greenfield when I was only four. Dad assumed the position as interim pastor for the only Presbyterian Church in town. He held that role for the next 14 years. I think the congregation or Presbytery forgot about the interim part.

Most of the 60 other students in my class lived out in the country. I was a townie and so envied the farm kids. They seemed closer to each other and more connected. And kids in the country always had someone to play with.

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The family home place.  I believe this is where Grandma Thornton and her sister Effe grew up here. 

I felt very alone living in town — like an outsider. Not so long ago I learned our family roots went deep in Greenfield and in Green County. We Thorntons weren’t outsiders at all. My grandmother’s family went as far back as many of the families in the area. The difference is, we hadn’t stayed in the community.

Grandma married Grandpa and they moved away to exotic places like India and Japan and St. Louis.  They returned to Grandma’s home town when Grandpa was dying and just about the time Dad moved his tribe to Greenfield.

I have always felt like I didn’t belong. One summer in the mid-80’s, I was vacationing with my cousin in the Florida Keys. Phil’s mom, my favorite Aunt Elizabeth, was there and spent a great deal of time talking about my childhood. She voiced what I had always felt. “Your parents didn’t mean to, but I think they raised you to be pariahs,” she said. “You had so many rules it was hard to fit in.”

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Lovely in person and spirit, my dad’s younger sister Aunt Elizabeth

True that. At least for me. I doubt all of my siblings would agree.  But her words perfectly captured my feelings.

There were good things, certainly, about growing up in our large family in the small town. Wonderful memories of get-togethers with siblings and their spouses and the ever-expanding number of children. Sunday visits with aunts and uncles and cousins from St. Louis. We’d gather at Grandma’s red brick house and eat curried beef or lamb with mint jelly. On holidays Grandma served money pudding with actual coins tucked inside. Grandma prepared the food and her maiden sister, Aunt Effe, would garnish the dishes to make them pretty.  A perfect team of form and function.

We had many happy occasions together. So much laughter and love.  But even then, when those city cousins arrived, I felt out of the loop.

We were different.

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Seven of the 10 children living in Wesco, MO. I was born here and moved to Greenfield in 1955

Dad and Mama held high expectations for their brood.  We were to be separate from the world, examples to every one of what a Christian family looked like, obedient, respectful and perfect. We were taught to avoid making money as that would lead us astray. My parents didn’t care about grades in school. They just wanted children who honored them, loved God and lived godly lives.

I didn’t have it in me to be that kind of child. Couldn’t do it. Didn’t want to do it.  Sure as hell wouldn’t do it.

As I became a teenager, Dad and I fought tooth and nail.  Tempers flared, words were said and punishments doled out almost daily. My anger and resentment only grew stronger.

The battle of the wills came to a head one Saturday afternoon. Watson and I came to blows on the stairs and beautiful, gracious Aunt Elizabeth got caught in the middle. Dad stood at the top of the stairs, my aunt on the landing and I held my place at the bottom of the steps.  I shouted up to Dad, “Why do you hate me?” and he replied, “Why do you hate me?” I responded with all my pent-up anger, “Take your god and go to hell!”

Watson had met his match. I had his temper and had turned it back onto him.

The house grew silent. Aunt Elizabeth continued down the stairs and into another room. Mom ceased her work in the kitchen. I waited for the wrath of the Old Testament Jehovah to descend on me. Punishment came, and it was not as awful as I thought.

I lost my record player for months.  I moved to the front row of church for weeks. And I no longer could teach the little ones in Sunday School.  No belt lashing followed. No hairbrush or fly swatter either.

That day of our fight, dad returned to his study.  Mama led me into the music room and told me to sit next to her piano. Then she began to play– hymn after hymn–and I listened, then began to sing. The music soothed me, the familiar words comforted me. When she started in on the first verse of “I Must tell Jesus” however, I began to sob.

I must tell Jesus all of my trials,
I cannot bear these burdens alone;
In my distress He kindly will help me,
He ever loves and cares for His own.

Refrain:
I must tell Jesus! I must tell Jesus!
I cannot bear my burdens alone;
I must tell Jesus! I must tell Jesus!
Jesus can help me, Jesus alone.

I must tell Jesus all of my troubles,
He is a kind, compassionate Friend;
If I but ask Him He will deliver,
Make of my troubles quickly an end.

Tempted and tried I need a great Savior,
One who can help my burdens to bear;
I must tell Jesus, I must tell Jesus:
He all my cares and sorrows will share.

Tension existed between Dad and I until his dying day. I loved him deeply but I never felt I was good enough for him. Not Christian enough.  Not spiritual enough. With Mama, however, I felt nothing but tenderness and love despite not living up to all she had hoped.

P8060977 (2)Now I have a 12-year old daughter who, despite being carried in another woman’s womb, is the spitting image of me. Maybe not in looks but we share a red-hot temper, strong will, intense passion and an independent spirit.

All I want for her to know as she grows is that she is unconditionally loved, celebrated for her uniqueness and encouraged to become whatever she wants.  I also want her to know that, aside from being able to talk with her father and me about anything, she can always tell Jesus. He comletely understands and cares for His own.

 

 

I Tried to be a Sunbeam for Jesus

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Our church in the 50’s would have fit well into a Norman Rockwell-type painting.

**This post appeared the other day under on a different site: First & Third Verse. I launched a second blog (which I now think may be a mistake) to provide space for a bigger project: First & Third Verse  This site looks at traditional hymns and how they impacted my spiritual development and how they continue to be meaningful even as I’ve moved from a traditional way of thinking to a much more progressive viewpoint. If you have a love for the old church hymns, I hope you’ll visit the site.***

I feel I was predestined to be smiling and joyful for Jesus, whether I liked it or not.

Not only me, but all nine of my siblings were programmed to be sunbeamers from the minute we were born. And of course we could and would be because, well, we had the joy, joy, joy, joy down in our hearts.

Jesus wants me for a sunbeam,
To shine for Him each day;
In every way try to please Him,
At home, at school, at play.

A sunbeam, a sunbeam,
Jesus wants me for a sunbeam;
A sunbeam, a sunbeam,
I’ll be a sunbeam for Him.

Sunday after Sunday I gathered with a handful of other children in the damp, cool basement of First Presbyterian Church in Greenfield, Illinois. Together we filled the lower level with loud, off-key voices and occasional outbursts of giggles. We moved in close to the piano and acted out our happy verses, arms to the sky, hands cupped around our cheeks, fingers wiggling in the air.  We climbed climbed up sunshine mountain with faces all aglow and, like that wee little man, Zacheus, we climbed up in a Sycamore tree then plopped down on the floor when he dropped down from the tree to eat dinner with Jesus.

Those melodies were campy, peppy and repetitive and the lyrics– definitely long-term memory material. All memories of church were.

Church was my second home. As the preacher, dad was required to be there whenever the doors opened. When he doubled as the janitor, we got there early to open the doors and stayed until the halls were empty.

Sunday morning and Sunday night we were present. No exceptions. Wednesday night prayer meeting was also mandatory. And one Tuesday a month we visited the Prairie Home, the local nursing home, bringing songs, a short message and good cheer to the old folks of our little town.

downloadHow I dreaded those evenings.

I cared about the elderly and their loneliness. I often left the building with tears rolling down my face because of the sorrow I sensed and felt within those wall. I ached for the women and men who sat by themselves in their rooms, day after day, without visits from their children.

I just didn’t know what to say.

I felt uncomfortable holding their shaky hands and feeling their paper-thin skin. Shouting to be heard embarrassed me (I mean, what doesn’t embarrass a teenager?) Pervasive smells of disinfectant and urine made me gag. Yet, going there was my duty. A rigorously enforced duty. By the time I reached 16, I had counted the number of Tuesdays I had to go before high school graduation.  Freedom couldn’t come too soon.

At the nursing home, at school, at play, I wasn’t much of a sunbeam.  I tried. When the music played, my voice rang out clear and strong. During prayer time my head remained bowed , and neither of my eyes would look around. I memorized verses and taught the little kids in Sunday School. With other kids in the youth group, I attended Youth for Christ rallies in St. Louis. I raised my hand countless times for this joy, joy, joy thing to take root in my heart.

But (and there’s always a but in  life) faith for me hasn’t been sunny. Over the years the path I’ve walked has been some sun and partly cloudy. Overcast days followed by serious thunderstorms. Maybe it’s the way I viewed them — glass half-empty kind of thing.  My dear friend Lauralee has never met a day that wasn’t filled with something good. She sees her glass filled to overflowing in even the darkest circumstance.

Varying levels of serotonin in my brain have created mood swings. That’s a fact. Or it could be I was born with my stars out of alignment. Whatever the cause, I’ve had as many weepy, tear-filled days as I have joy-filled ones. I have grown comfortable with angst.

In the past my gray-sky outlook has left me with a sense of being less than. Not a good Christian. Letting down the Lord. Failing the family. Not giving God God’s due.

So guilt on top of my Eeyore-like world view has done a number on me.

Until this past year.

Moving to South America, a new continent, far removed from family and the land that formed me, I’m discovering a new freedom.  Here we experience rain almost everyday and the clouds hang very low. Some mornings, so low I feel I can almost touch them. But in this high place in the Andes, sunshine manages to burst through at least once a day. And those rays are brilliant, warm, energizing and potent. I feel my cells waking up. I feel my spirit come to life.

No longer do I feel I ought to be a sunbeam, much less a sunbeam for anyone.

But I have grown to celebrate and love the sun.

Z: It’s All about Mary/ #a-to-z challenge/ Zee End

We’ve reached zee end of my April posts on Mary Scott Gash Thornton.

For those who have read the daily blogs, thank you, thank you, thank you.  Your responses have made me smile, tear up and thank God for having people in my life like Mary and like you.

Even if you’ve just read one or two, I thank you, too.

For me this exercise has brought back so many wonderful memories of people, places and things that, though centered on Mary, have enriched my life immensely.

Much more can be said about this short, round, rosy-cheeked woman. She had a heart the size of Greenland and brought music and laughter to the lives of so many.

Mary continues to teach  me.  When she was alive and mothering me, I tended not to listen a lot.  Examining her life over the past 30 days I have seen more clearly who she was and what she has meant to me. And to others.

My spirits have improved over the past four weeks. I do believe I’ve fussed less at David, groused fewer times at Katherine, felt less angst, sang more, cried less (except for those of remembrance and love) and generally behaved like a better human being.

Mary continues to have her influence on my life.

My prayer is that one day my daughter will have a fraction of the good things to say or write or remember about me.

Mama will never be remembered in history. Her passing left no mark on our times. But her well-lived life, her laughing spirit, her music-filled days have enriched mine immensely.

Mary Scott Gash Thornton — a woman of exceptional talent, a quiet person who was loud and clear about what she believed and whom she loved, a mom who made every one of her children feel like the most loved person in the world and a wife who loved her husband until her last breath.

I wish you could have known her.  But I suppose by now you do, at least a little.

Thank you again for being with me for the A-to-Z Challenge…It’s All about Mary.

 

L: It’s All about Mary/#a-to-z challenge/ Laughter

I am not sure which grandson came up with the word “Wheezer” to describe the Thornton women. Maybe we should blame John’s or Elsie’s boys. It sounds like them. Full of life and sarcasm. Whomever is to blame, the name stuck. The aunts officially became the wheezers.

We laughed when we got together until we couldn’t breathe. Tears filled our eyes and rolled down reddened faces. The more we laughed, the greater the crowd around us became.

People like to be around happiness.

Which is why, I believe, mom had so many people enjoy being around.  She loved to laugh. Her sense of humor was kind, never mean.

Sitting here now I can’t remember specific things she said. I just remember the gales of laughter that filled the air when she held court in the dining room.

Remove mom from the table and place dad there instead and the atmosphere completely changed. The girls would talk to dad of somber, serious things. Tears would flow. Good conversation took place but on a higher plane. God, scripture, living a Christian life — that was more the direction of the interactions with him.

Mom brought out the lighter side of living.

She found humor in so much. And she wasn’t afraid of making fun of herself. She would tell tales of her mistakes and have the room rolling.

For awhile, mom and dad lived next doors to Riggins Funeral Home in southern Illinois. On numerous occasions, mom was hired to play for services.

At that time, the organ was placed in a

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Dad and Mom lived in a small white house to the left of this funeral home.

small room off to the side of the large viewing room. A speaker in the wall allowed mom to monitor when she was needed to play. Mom also used the speaker as a monitor for her sound level.

 

During one service, she noticed she couldn’t hear the music very well through the speaker. She adjusted the the volume on the organ and continued playing. Still nothing. She added more volume. No change. Not thinking of any other reason for the lack of sound, she cranked the volume to its highest setting. At that point someone poked their head into the room and asked her if she was trying to wake the dead. It seems someone had turned the speaker off and while Mary, was attempting to soothe mourners with “The Lord is My Shepherd,” was in fact assaulting them with her song. She quickly corrected her mistake and peace was restored. The body was ultimately put to a quiet, melody-free rest.

Mom’s face crinkled when she retold her mishap. Her eyes lit up as she laughed at herself. And me, I wheezed. I loved to laugh with her. I believe we all did.

Perhaps the Thorntons have used laughter to hide our pain. I don’t know. One niece-in-law  (who has since opted to be an out-law) questioned the amount of laughter we had when we gathered for brother John’s funeral.

She thought it disrespectful.

I felt no disrespect.  I felt tremendous love and deep, deep loss. For hours we talked of John and the life he led. We relived memories,shared stories and celebrated the son, brother, husband and father he had been. We mourned his sadness and his untimely passing. While we cried, we also wheezed uncontrollably for the joy he brought to us in the short years he was with us.

Along with laughter, the tears pour. Bitter and sweet. Painful and joyful.  Death and life. We can’t have one without the other.

Mama was a woman of intense emotions I believe.  She didn’t speak of them often. She showed them to us most often and passionately through her music. We heard her sorrow late at night as she played in the darkness and sang her songs of comfort. And we witnessed it most certainly through her wonderful, infectious laughter.

I really miss Mary.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I: It’s All About Mary/#a-to-z challenge/ I Cannot Tell

My sister Elsie Lois had a voice so beautiful I teared up when I heard her sing. When she and mom made music together,  I inevitably felt a sense of calm and peace.  All would be right in my world for at least the length of their songs.

Elsie was as innately gifted with music as mama was–Elsie’s instrument was her voice and mom’s was the keyboard.

My favorite song they did together was “I Cannot Tell,” a hymn written to the tune of the Irish classic “Londonderry Air.” Any time I was with them both, I requested it. When mom died in the 80’s, that song went silent. Occasionally I heard Elsie sing it, accompanied by one of my other sisters and it was beautiful. But it wasn’t mama.

All the girls played the piano. Ruth placed a close second to mom in my opinion. Alice and Martha tickled the ivories but I wasn’t around to hear them much. Elsie could accompany herself but preferred not to. Kate and I never made it very far with the piano.

By the time we came along, mom’s method of teaching piano to her children was to correct us from the kitchen. As she cooked in the back of the house, we’d play.  Every few bars we’d hear,  “No! F sharp. F sharp!”  We’d adjust our fingers and continue our struggle. Both of us gave up along the way.  Kate found her creative outlet in art quilts. I’m working on mine.

Elsie and her husband Vince left Greenfield for Hopkinsville, Kentucky and then Belle Glade, Florida. Their growing family — eventually eight children in all  — made the trip back home most Christmases or Thanksgivings.

On a cold winter day, the Marquess vehicle pulled into our driveway, the doors flew open and out tumbled tow-headed children of all sizes dressed in tee shirts and tennis shoes.  They had little need of winter wear in south Florida so dressing for Illinois winters posed a challenge. Layering was the key. And on the enclosed porch where all the children slept, a well-vented gas heater remained at the highest setting.

I never saw a child that Elsie didn’t love and that didn’t love her back. She could have been Francine of Assisi. She had a quiet way about her. She smiled warmly at strangers, engaged them with questions that sounded like she was totally interested.  And she was. She listened no matter how long they went on. And on. And on. Something I’ve not been able to do and, at age 65, probably never will

Mom and Elsie — in fact mom and most of my sisters — had a lot in common. Love of music and laughter. Great cooks. Contented wives. Struggle with weight. Women of faith. And, for the most part, lousy housekeepers. Mom outshone Elsie on the housekeeping. Elsie was much better with children. I believe all the sisters hold people as priorities.

The three boys are like silent partners.  They have important positions but speak little and go on about their lives without much fanfare.  Charles left home for the army when he was a teenager. Then he went to college, then seminary, he married and lived far from family. He is retired now, in Alaska. Sam, the middle son, remains in Greenfield and chose to farm. John died at 35 and left us stunned and silent.

So it seems the Thornton women are the ones that make the noise and sing the songs and gather the families and help keep the memories alive. Mom would like that. She loved to see her children together, filling her home house with music and commotion.

She wanted us to all get along. To remain connected. To be at peace. Once, when I was driving mom home from an appointment (she didn’t have a license) I made an ugly comment about dad. (I unfortunately went through some anger years and am afraid he felt the brunt of it.)  She turned to me and said,”He’s a very good man, Nancy, and he loves you.”

Watson was a very good man. He certainly loved me. He loved all his children deeply and demonstrated it through his actions and his presence. But mom’s love was different. I felt it. I heard it. I saw it. I knew it absolutely. And I loved it.

Now if I can give that to my daughter…

 

 

C: It’s All About Mary/ Counting My Blessings

Growing up with Mary as a mother meant that music was central to my life. Our days as a family usually often began with her playing one or two hymns.

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The Thornton family well long I came to live with them. Mom delivered 11 children in all. I was #10.

She wasn’t much of a morning person. If she had her druthers she’d sleep until 9 or 10, I’m sure. Her favorite times of day were late at night when the family had gone to bed. But dad, as a guidance counselor at the high school, was up and out the door early during the week. On the weekends, he was the preacher, so definitely no late mornings then.

 

Mary dutifully rose and cooked breakfast for her husband and children. We ate together most mornings. Unless I was bleeding or upchucking, no excuse was good enough to miss breakfast or family prayers.  School bells could ring and I’d be tardy, but I could not miss devotions.

Once breakfast was finished, we migrated to mom’s music room for devotions. Two sets of oak sliding doors were used to close the room off when mom was giving piano lesson.  In the mornings, the doors were open and we found seats between and around mom’s grand piano and organ .

Family devotions consisted of (if time allowed) singing a hymn, reading two chapters of the Bible and praying for every person we knew by name — including missionaries all over the world, the people they witnessed to and then some.

When dad prayed for the family, mom remembered the missionaries. Bill and Alice Widbin somewhere Africa, Dorothy Clark in Nigeria, an orphanage in India with a little boy named Jothi.  I prayed for Jothi for decades. One day not long before mom died, I asked her whatever happened to Jothi.  She said he had grown up and was living near the orphanage. Despite his physical and mental challenges he was  doing well.  Good to know our prayers worked for him I said.  “Oh, Nancy, hush!” she said with a smile. She sometimes like my irreverence.  But not always.

She believed in the power of prayer. Dad did, too. They brought everything to God in prayer. And they brought us right there with them. We got down on our knees around the circle of chairs (I tried to get the softest one because I could catch a few more minutes of sleep).  Dad or mom started the prayers and we went one by one until all had thanked God for our many blessings or asked God for help with someone and something. The other parent would wrap up our time of thanksgiving and petitions.

I hated this time as a child.  As a teen, especially, I was so embarrassed when friends would spend the night and Dad and Mom would urge them to participate in the ceremony.  Nothing and noone kept Mary and Watson from spending time with the Lord in the morning.

Family worship wrapped up with the Lord’s Prayer. By the time we got to “In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit,” I was up off my knees. By the “Amen”, I was out the door for school.

The middle part of prayers was reading the Bible.  We went front to back, Genesis 1:1 to the final verse of Revelations, two chapters a day, two verses at a time.  Starting with the youngest and going to the oldest. On the longer chapters, we could go around the circle three or four times. I have no idea how many times I’ve read the Bible through, Old and New Testaments, but I know I have countless verses committed to memory.  Even today, almost six decades after living at home, I can recall verses I read as a child.  I also firmly believe that we are all good readers because of these early days.  We learned to read at very young ages sitting together in the mornings sounding out words like Methuselah, Sennacherib and the pages and pages of Hebrew names in the Old Testament.

My favorite part of prayers, without a doubt, was when we had time to sing. Mom played her grand piano with such power and passion. She loved her God and she showed that love through her fingers on the keys, whether the melodies were hymn or classical pieces she had memorized.  As I write this I feel tears welling up inside. An ache for the woman who comforted me so often with her music. When I longed for something as only a teenage girl can long and it didn’t come to pass, when I had a broken heart, or when my feelings were hurt from someone at school.

Mama would sit me down in the easy chair next to the piano and she would play songs like “Great is Thy Faithfulness”, “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing”, “Does Jesus Care?”

She played until my tears stopped.  And then we’d go and get a bite to eat.

Food and music.  It’s a theme you’ll see in Mary’s life.

For any faults she had (and yes, Mary Scott Gash Thornton had her fair share) she was a woman of intense love and faith, and my life continues to be blessed with the gifts she gave me every single day.

 

I regret that I have no recordings of mama playing.  Some may exist in the United States, in the homes of my sisters and brothers. But here in Ecuador, I have no access to them. Instead when I want to be with mama at the piano, I go to YouTube and plug in the name of a hymn that she would play.  The link below takes you to one of my favorites.

For friends reading who are not of the Christian faith or perhaps any faith at all, this may seem very foreign to you.  All I can say is I pray that you have a similar source of comfort and joy. Life feels easier with such a person.

My mother’s name was Mary.

 

 

A: It’s All about Mary

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Mary, Watson and seven of their nine living children

Mary Scott Gash Thornton left this earth with a deep sigh one Spring evening in 1986.

Dad held on to his faith for support but he so missed her. Never have I seen him look so lost as in the days following her death.

Mary made it past Mother’s Day, so she had recently heard from all of her children. The twins, Alice and Ruth, were the the oldest and each lived just a few blocks from mom and dad’s small rental home on the edge of Cartersville, Illinois.  The other seven kids, spread out from California to Alaska to Georgia had sent their flowery Mother’s Day cards or placed their phone calls.

I called because I loved the way mom sounded when she knew it was one of her children on the line. There was no mistaking the joy in her voice.  “Oh, hi,” she’d say with such warmth. Every time my face would break out in a smile.  She liked me. She really, really liked me.

Mom didn’t need a fabricated holiday to tell her that she was adored by her children and her husband. This five-foot two-inch woman knew she was loved.

Mom had a heart the size of Australia and a personality to boot. My dad’s heart was smaller, more like Texas. He was reserved and severe and very generous. They made a good couple.

Mary and Watson were a study in contrasts. Over the years mom grew to be as round as she was short. Dad remained tall and trim and really quite handsome. She was outgoing to his formality. Mary entertained people while Dad preached, instructed and admonished. She could talk to anyone and engage them in stimulating conversation. He preferred to sit and observe. Talking made him very uncomfortable. He said he was at a loss for words except for when he was teaching or preaching.

Their opposites attracted and even after 55+ years of marriage they remained smitten . I knew without a doubt I wanted a marriage like theirs.

They married in February 1929, the same year her father passed away.  A year later, Mom and Dad sailed for Japan to serve as missionaries.

That move must have been difficult for her but she never complained in her letters. She was a St. Louis girl and they were moving to the outskirts of a city in a foreign country. She had no understanding of Japanese (Dad did, he grew up there). She didn’t cook or clean or sew. She knew nothing about birthing babies.  Mary Scott Gash Thornton only knew how to play the piano.

And she was good. She was very very good.

In fact, at age 8 or so, mom performed a concert in St. Louis to raise money for the WW1 war effort. Her talent was impressive. Professionals encouraged her to pursue a career as a concert pianist. She wrestled with the idea but ultimately chose dad and life with him as a missionary.

Not long after they married in St. Louis, they moved to Japan. She left behind her widowed mother, two brothers and sister. Her twin, Nancy, had died at age 3. Mary also left behind her piano.

Letters from Mom to her mother, Mattie, in St. Louis describe the challenges of her life. Of supervising house help who could not understand her nor her them. Of working with people who wanted her to get herself together and become more serious. To wear longer hair, not her fashionable bob. To be more serious and not so full of laughter. She was to become someone other than who she truly was. And she was to birth babies.

The Thornton family expanded rapidly to include the first five children.  Alice and Ruth (the twins), Charles, Elsie and Martha.  The Japanese family.  The better half of the siblings I’ve always called them.

WWII was about to break out, so Mary and Watson whisked their family back to the States until peace was restored. They had every intention of returning, but that dream was put on hold. Thirty years would pass before they arrived back in Japan to live.

In those intervening years, the Thornton family grew even more.  Mom bore 11 children in all. Sam, John, Mary Catherine, me and Susan.  One little girl died shortly after birth. A few years later, the youngest child, Susan, was hit by a car and died. The nine remaining kids married and did their fair share of multiplying. Mom got her piano back and dad stepped into the pulpit.

My father reveled in his grandchildren. Mom not so much.  She was tired of babies and burping and changing diapers.  She wanted to play her music and  read her books and visit with her children. One day she told me rather apologetically, “I really don’t care for the little ones. I enjoy the grand kids when they are 14 or so, when I can have a conversation.”

She’d earned time for herself.

During the month of April  I will use daily posts to introduce you to my mother, Mary Scott Gash Thornton. A remarkable woman in so many ways.  Few had her gift  and passion for music. Her sense of humor was engaging.  She’d entertain guests around the table, placing bank presidents next to the town drunk and all would be well. She loved her kids. She loved her Watson. She lived her faith. And she brought a world of music to the people around her.

My mother’s name was Mary.