The Help

I recently finished reading The Help.

I was a child in the 60s, raised in the South, lived in a home with hired help... We had a sewing lady named Ruby, a yardman named James, and a maid named Mary Frances. And here is where we were a family VERY different from the stereotypes listed in the book. We were respectful to our help. We, as children, would have been disciplined if we did anything otherwise. They worked in our home and used our home just like we did. They ate at the same table, with the same dishes, used the same facilities, etc...

I remember sitting and watching Ruby as she cut out new outfits for us. As she sewed them. I absorbed every step. James was such a kind man...a large man in his overalls who shuffled around the large yard. I don't remember at what point these two folks quit coming, but at one point, I was sewing my own clothes and cutting the grass.

But Mary Frances began working for us when I was very young. So young that I don't recall when she first came. We moved away for 2yrs, but when we returned to Atlanta, she came back to our home. She came by 9am, cooked, cleaned, disciplined us.... I remember that she used to watch Dark Shadows in the kitchen while she ironed. That was the only time we were not allowed to be in the kitchen with her. We were not allowed to watch soap operas... She cooked dinner and left it on the "hot tray" and drove away by 5pm. My parents paid for driving lessons and bought her a car at one point. I remember driving around with Mary Frances on errands to Kmart or some other store. She would buy herself popcorn and chocolate covered peanuts to eat simultaneously. I remember that she had a boy my age, but I never saw him. I don't know who was raising him. Mary Frances no longer came about the time I turned 13. After that, we had a lady come once each week to clean. Her name was Catherine. Catherine was still around when I brought my children over to my parents' home. I remember wonderful deep discussions with Catherine. One day Catherine was diagnosed with cancer... My father helped her find a doctor, but eventually Catherine died. I was living in England at that time and was very sad that I wasn't able to come back for her funeral.

As I read The Help I was reminded of lots of my childhood in certain ways. But also learned things that I'd never known firsthand. However, when Skeeter wrote that she had never had a chance to thank Constantine, I broke down. I had never thanked those hired people. I had never thanked Ruby, or James. But most importantly I had never thanked Mary Frances. Hopefully I will find her and thank her. We did meet again about 11yrs ago. I loved being able to show her my children, though I had only nine at the time. I loved that my children could see who this woman was. Hopefully I will see her again, but she has moved far away.

So The Help brought up some memories....

Update on 4/28/2015
I found her! I found Mary Frances.  She had moved back across the country from Washington State to Georgia.  Back to her home town.  I too moved back across the country, back to Alabama.  And on April 28, 2015, I went to visit this special lady in her home in Georgia.  I brought my tenth child, whom Mary Frances had never met.  We told stories together.  We ate fried chicken.  We laughed and reminisced for two hours before I had to head home.  And I thanked her and hugged her neck tight. 

Passing the Baton

When I began my midwifery journey, I was attending births of my friends and peers. A few years later, I realized that I was attending births of women young enough to be my daughters, yet my daughters were still younger. So I felt as though I was still in a somewhat removed role, that of care provider. Then one day that changed...

I was originally hired as midwife to the young woman. Due to some circumstances, I had to transfer her care to a different midwife, but I was still asked to come along to the birth as an extra set of hands. There was already an assistant, so I was truly just an "extra." And yet at one point during the birth, I became not just an extra, but an essential. Mom was on the birth stool. Dad was poised to "catch" with the midwife. I was supporting the mom. She was leaning back with her head on my shoulder. She was nearly the same age as my daughter. I began comforting her in a way that I would do my own daughter.... I encouraged her, held her, stroked her hair, and even pretended as if she truly was my daughter. This was a difficult moment for her, but I had faith in her and told her so. She was strong, and I reminded her of that fact. And she was beautiful...

And now 10 years later into my journey, I have been reminded that these women are getting younger and younger. As I watch their beauty and strength, I am also reminded that the world continues. God wants it peopled. And these strong women are working hard to birth their babies. I spent many years birthing babies. Yes, I miss giving birth. But now I can pass the baton to the next generation. I can help them, encourage them, support them, and remind them of God's grace.

I love what I do, and I love the women I serve. God is eternal and faithful and good.