Ordinary or adventurous?

Last time I blogged, I shared with you my mother's humble beginnings. Her life started out like most of ours - simple, easy to understand and quite ordinary.
Now don't get me wrong. There is nothing wrong with ordinary. Ordinary is fine. Ordinary is good. Very often, ordinary is safe.
The thing is, although my mother's life started out ordinary, it hasn't been so for many, many years. She was granted an ordinary childhood and ordinary early adulthood, but as she followed God into  marriage with my father, she also followed God's calling out of the ordinary and into a life of wonder, adventure, hardship and success.
I've just spent the last 30 minutes reading a mail from her, in which she talks about studying, getting married, starting a family and following God's calling to move to an isolated place in Norway. I've read about my family's journey from Norway to Tanzania, and how that impacted my mother. I've read about her feelings as she tried to adjust to a culture so thoroughly different than her own. I've read about her feelings as she realized these differences also impacted her offspring.

And I cried.

My eyes brimmed over over with hot, salty tears as I realized that my mother is no where near ordinary.

My mother, although quiet and humble of nature, is a giant when it comes to servanthood and discipleship. She is a monument of faithfulness and loyalty.

She is simply put extraordinary. (Strange word, by the way - extra & ordinary - why does that mean better than or above ordinary, and not simply ordinary x2?)

My mother grew up in a christian home, and as a teenager, she joined the youth group when it travelled to other places to be a part of youth meetings and conferences. She met my father at such a conference, on Bornholm, the small island in the Baltic where I now live with my family.

The story of how they met often embarrasses my mother. It shouldn't, though, because the romance that began a late night after a church meeting has now lasted for more than 45 years! They saw each other across the room, and my father motioned for her to follow him out the door after the meeting. She did. And they've been a couple ever since.

My mother moved from her home town of Randers, in Jutland, to Bornholm, so that she could be closer to my father. To support herself, she lived with and worked for a doctor's family, cooking, cleaning and taking care of the children. After a while, she decided to educate herself and began studying to become a nursing assistant. Studying was hard. She was 19, pretty much alone, and no one took particularly care of her at the hospital. She had to figure our for herself how to do most things. Her boss was a strict nurse offering very little warmth and encouragement, and my mother was often so nervous, that she almost fainted just going to work in the morning!

You see, although my mother is best described as my hero, I am not blind to the fact that she is human, and therefore as frail and imperfect as myself. She has her flaws - of course! If she didn't, I don't think she would be as interesting as she is.

It is exactly because of her mortal state as a human that I find her so noteworthy. She is living proof to me that if you follow God - trust in Him with all that's in you - and if you do your best, God will allow you to be part of His great big adventure! Your life will come to matter in ways you have not imagined. You will be able to make a lasting difference in someone elses life!

And as I strive to do just that, it's encouraging to look to someone else who has gone before me - who has done it. Who knows what it's like to burn with desire to serve and please God - but who also knows how difficult it is while you also strive to be a good mother and a good wife.

My mother is a woman. Within her beats a heart as soft, warm and loving as mine - and as yours.

That's just one of the many reasons why I love my mother.

Humble beginnings - my mothers childhood

If anyone had told my grandmother that one of her twin daughters would end up serving the Lord as a missionary in Tanzania for more than 30 years, I am not sure she would have believed it. She was a God-fearing woman, my grandmother, and I know that she supported my parents in their desire and willingness to serve the Lord. I doubt, however, that Tanzania was on her mind that day, march 15th, 1950, when she gave birth to first my mother, then 20 minutes later to her twin sister, Inger. The twins were born on their older sister's 5th birthday, perhaps by induced labour, as my grandmother had been hospitalised in Randers for about 3 weeks due to complications with her pregnancy. At home, she already had a daughter and 2 sons, as well as two older sons already moved from home to serve as farmhands.

My mother and her siblings were raised on a farm called Rygaard, outside the Danish town of Lystrup. My grandparents bought the farm during World War II, most likely in order to support their growing family. There was no luxury, as money was scarce, but both were hard workers and managed a farm with pigs, 5 or 6 cows, 2 horses, chicken, crops and a dog. My grandmother grew vegetables and fruit trees, and both her and my grandfather were proud of their small farm. They worked hard and got by well enough for their family to be fed and kept warm. All three daughters slept in the same room as their parents, and the 2 sons still living at home shared a small room behind the kitchen. The loo was the old fashioned type – a bucket! There was no toilet paper, instead the family used newspaper, and as the room was dark and cool, it also contained the family’s potato storage. Laundry was done in a large kettle, boiling the clothes after they had soaked for a while.

My grandmother lived up to the sturdiness and health her name conveys - Helga. Strong, honest and healthy.

My grandmother would buy chicks and keep them warm under a lamp in the old barn. Every time a chick died, money was lost.

Food was cooked on a wood burning stove, although my grandmother also had access to a gas burner. The family washed face, hands and feet in the kitchen sink, baths being so rare my mother believes she probably only had one single, proper bath before she turned 10!

Although poor, the farm had two living rooms – one for everyday use, and another for Sundays and guests. Eventually the wall between the two were torn down. The winter cold was kept at bay with a wood burning stove, but as soon as the temperatures dropped below 0 degrees Celsius, ice crystals formed on the windows like small, frozen flowers.

Every Saturday, Inger and Hannah had to rake the pebble driveway, making sure everything looked nice for Sunday.

As already mentioned, Rygaard was bought during World War II, before my mother's birth. At some point during the war, my grandfather was sent to Germany to work, and my grandmother had to care for the farm and her 4 sons alone. Occasionally, German soldiers would find their way to Rygaard, demanding to sleep in the hay. Although they never harmed my grandmother, it must have been utterly frightening for her. She has already passed, so I cannot question her about this time of her life, but I can imagine her lips moving in silent prayer for the Lord to keep her and her family safe. I believe she already at that time knew the power of prayer, putting her faith in God completely – a way of life my mother would later model for her own children as we grew up in Tanzania. Tanzania in the 1980’s was a difficult country to live in, with little food to buy and rain seasons you could never count on.

The first school my mother attended was a small countryside school, and in the beginning, Inger and Hannah would walk the 2.5 km back and forth. At some point, their father bought bicycles for the girls, making it easier for them to get to school. At that time, they attended classes every second day. There were 3 different grades being taught in the same room, and as at home, the school was kept warm with a wood burning stove. Desks were the old fashioned kind, where you could lift the lid of the desk and place things inside of it.

When Inger and Hannah reached the 3^rd grade, school reforms sent them by school bus to a school further away from home. At the age of 10, Rygaard was sold and the family moved to nearby Randers, a bigger town. The move meant yet a new school. 

Randers opened up a whole new world for the girls. My grandmother took a job first in a poultry butchery, later packing eggs for sale. Her jobs meant new chores for the girls. They no longer had a pebble driveway to rake, instead they had to do the dishes.

Moving to Randers also meant changing schools several times, as the family moved 3 times within the town before settling down in an apartment that was large enough without being too expensive. My mother lived here till the age of 17, where she moved to the Danish island of Bornholm, located in the Baltic Sea off the west coast of Sweden.

Before my mother moved, she finished 9^th grade, left school and took on a job as a maid, helping around the house and taking care of 3 children. 

Already from a young age, my sweet mother has been accustomed to hard, honest work. She still is, by the way - a true busy body, a beautiful worker bee, constantly setting an example worth following. Even now, with grown up children and counting 9 grandchildren, my mother continues to serve and love with as much enthusiasm as possible. 

May there be more mothers like her.