Honoring My Mother

by Fred Fenton

LW contributor

My mother was a remarkable woman. She was a pioneer woman doctor who graduated from medical school in 1926, the only woman in her class. She did her best to live according to the teachings of Jesus, spending many hours in volunteer work at a social welfare agency and devoting a great deal of her income to helping others and giving to church and charity.

When I was in graduate school, my wife and I were living in a poor neighborhood in Boston. We decided to enroll our first child in a nearby nursery school. When I gave my name, the woman at the desk asked if by chance I was related to Dr. Helen Fenton of San Bernardino, California. Shocked, I asked how she knew of my mother. “We are sponsored by the American Baptist Denomination,” she said, “and your mother has been giving to this school for years. We wouldn’t think of charging for your child.”

Mother’s story begins with her parents. She was their only child, and they loved and affirmed her always. Her father completed only five years of school. The jobs he worked at never paid much. Her mother was a homemaker. They were poor, but only discussed money problems at night when Mother was in bed.

A major expenditure for which her parents scrimped and saved was an upright piano. Delighted, Mother learned to play and kept that piano with her always, even taking it to the retirement home where she spent the last years of her life. Mom’s parents, and their unconditional love for her, remained with her always.

Her first day in medical school, Mother spotted a handsome young man sitting in the front row and took her seat beside him. They fell in love, but it was only after graduating from medical school that the two saved up enough to marry. They set up practice together in his hometown, San Bernardino.

It was a difficult marriage. The birth of my brother, and four years later, me, added to the stress in their lives. Mother remained positive and productive through it all. Our family went to church twice on Sunday, and to a mid-week service as well.

Mom treated all her patients, which included Black and Hispanic people, with equal respect. In my nursery she hung a picture of a Black and a white baby together in a crib, a revolutionary act in the 1930s. Mother had an abiding interest in people. Her patients discovered her interest in their personal problems and would tell her everything, often keeping other patients waiting.

As a Baptist, Mother was concerned when I joined the Episcopal Church during my first year at Harvard. It sounded Catholic to her Protestant ears. I showed her the title page of the Book of Common Prayer, which contained the words “Protestant Episcopal Church,” and she relaxed. A lifelong Republican, Mother surprised us by voting for Jimmy Carter, saying, “It’s about time we have a good Baptist in the White House.” That my brother and I both became priests was due, in large part, to the influence of our mother and the example she set for us.

When her mother had to be put in a nursing home, and missed going to church, Mother volunteered to provide a church service for all who wanted to attend. She learned to play a small, electronic organ and offered a Bible lesson.

For all her devotion, Mother was not sanctimonious. She laughed a lot and was genuinely amused by human frailties. She also was clear headed and practical. For instance, she was opposed to abortion, but argued for it to be made legal because she saw it as a class issue. Women of means were able to obtain a safe procedure, while poor women often died trying to abort themselves.

Let me close with a series of events I think wonderfully reveal my mom, who she was. Needing rectal surgery, Mother surprised everyone who knew her by going to the Roman Catholic Hospital instead of the hospital she and Dad were affiliated with. Why? Because she knew it was the best hospital in town.

While in the hospital Mom was visited by a nun, and the two became friends. When she learned the sister had not been home to Ireland for many years because of travel expenses, Mom paid for her to make the trip.

Years later, when I was helping her pack for moving to a Baptist retirement home, I found a rosary in her dresser. “Mom,” I said, “what are you doing with a rosary?”

“Hush,” she replied. “That’s not a rosary, it’s some prayer beads Sister gave me.”

Mother lived to be 93. Her funeral, in 1994, extended past an hour to accommodate representatives of organizations like the Salvation Army and the Christian Pilots Association who showed up unexpectedly to give thanks for her years of support. I am forever grateful for her, too.