Mother’s Day: That Which We Inherit
Mother’s Day is upon us. It is the day in which we honor our closest confidantes and diaper changers. Our mothers have an immeasurable influence on us as we grow. Those guiding influences form us into the people we are today, from our quirks to our personalities. Despite all the struggles that motherhood brings, their endurance and perseverance are inspiring. Mother’s Day always brings me so many memories of my mother, especially now that she is no longer with us. Perhaps by reading her story, you will be able to learn a little more about me and maybe even relate.
My mother was raised as an Orthodox Christian. Her parents were devout believers, and her father was the Cantor at the church they attended. She was a born singer. She loved to sing, and she attended a school for music. I followed in her footsteps, attending Colegiul de Arte “Sabin Dragoi” in Arad, Romania, afterwards attending a musical conservatory in Timisoara, Romania, and then later attending Wayne State University for vocal performance. My love for music was nurtured by my mother.
On one occasion, she attended a neo-protestant church with a close friend. To say she liked it a lot was an understatement. However, a year later, in 1975, she married my father. He did not like that she attended church, let alone a protestant one. During communism, there was no freedom of religion. All the churches that were allowed to remain open were constantly under surveillance by the government. Even the majority Orthodox population was under surveillance, and many priests and monks were imprisoned alongside Christians from other denominations. My father never had any interest in spirituality or religion— he was a Catholic by name, but an atheist by practice.
The doctors told my mother that she would never be able to have kids, and she went through many treatments in the hopes that she one day could become pregnant. She prayed deeply for a child— it was one of her greatest desires— and after a few years, she became pregnant with me. That was when she decided to give her life to Christ and become a born-again Christian. My father hated this. He would beat her and abuse her physically and emotionally; several times when she would come home from work, she’d find herself locked out of the apartment and had to sleep at the neighbors. When she finally gave birth, she was hospitalized for three weeks.
Only her family’s side visited her, and ladies from church brought her food for that period. My father did not want anything to do with us, but my mother prayed much for him and prayed much that I would look like him.
The government gave maternity leave for a year after birth, so, until I was nearly a year old, she took care of me. When I was 11 months old, I was sent to live with my grandmother, who lived 30 km away from her. She raised me while my grandfather was ill with cancer. My mother visited every Saturday when she would get a day off work and would bring goodies, chocolate, vitamins, new clothes— anything she could afford with her pay. My father never participated in raising me besides paying child support, and we often went to court when he refused to pay. When my mother would leave (after the weekend) my grandmother would send me to play with the other kids on the street so I wouldn’t cry when I’d see her leave. I’d return home, only to find the toys and clothes laid out on my bed. I’d carry them everywhere, smelling them and trying to catch her scent, crying after her.
My mother worked at a doll factory in Arad when I was growing up. When I was seven, I went back to Arad so I could attend school. School hours were from about eight in the morning to noon. Parents would work different shifts— morning, afternoon, or nightly— and they were rotated with other workers weekly. Often, parents and older siblings would alternate shifts to make sure there was always someone who could pick up the younger children from school and walk them so they’d arrive home safely. My mother had no one to alternate shifts with. The walk to school was long, and I had to cross many streets. My mother asked her boss to work from home so that she could be able to walk me to and from school. They agreed, and so, she worked from home. Her job was to paint the dolls’ eyelids and give them eyelashes.
During communism, the government would only allow a limited amount of electricity and heat to be used in the house, and we would have to warm up our apartment with heat from our gas stove. The chemicals in the gas and the other chemicals my mother used while painting the dolls’ eyes (like acetone) made the air toxic and eventually caused her to develop an allergy that couldn’t be treated— it was life-threatening. Her doctor gave her an ultimatum: she would quit her job and find another or suffer from the allergy her whole life. She chose to quit her job. She asked the landlord if she could clean the buildings for pay. She was well-liked, always neat and clean. He said he wouldn’t mind, but he would have to bring it up to the committee first. Out of all the members, only one of the members was against it because of her faith. Her request was denied.
My mother was dismayed, to say at the least. She turned to God and prayed, “I was abandoned by my husband, I’m a single mother raising a child, and I was rejected from a prospective job all because of this religion.” But she found comfort in Hebrews 13:5, which says “Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.” And so, we put our faith in God.
During this time, we were regularly attending services. My mother and I would walk two kilometers to church and back every Sunday morning and afternoon, but we never complained. I loved singing in the choir as much as she did, and after I joined when I was seven years old, my love for music only grew more.
One day, at church, a lady came up to her and asked her, “Who are you? I see that you come here with your daughter, and my son noticed that you come to church every Sunday in the same dress. What’s your story?” My mother told her story. She told her how her husband left her because she converted to Protestantism, and how she was barely making enough to support the two of us. The lady felt compassion towards her and told her we would never have to worry about money anymore. Her husband had moved to the USA, and they were moving there in a month to reunite with him. She promised they would always take care of my mother and me, and so it was. Many fellow Romanians can relate to the feeling of receiving goodies from Americans when they came to Romania, like new clothes, sweets (like Wrigley’s gum, Snickers, and Twix), Olay soap, dolls, and other toys— nice things that weren’t always available in Romania. We greatly appreciated all these blessings from a country we never dreamed for them to come from. It was the biggest country that could bless others like us. This lady and her family committed to helping us financially and sent us $100 every month.
In Romania, families tend to have many, many children, usually around 6-18. My mother dedicated her life to helping these large families, orphans, and widows at church. She would cook, clean, wash clothes, and help in any way she could. She thought of it as her way of paying it forward— after all, if God helped us in this way, we would help others too. There was a kind gentleman who’d lost his wife a few years back, and he had two young children. While my mother was helping other families with their needs, she ended up meeting my step-father. And so, when I was 12 years old, my mother remarried. Three years later, she gave birth to a son— my half-brother, who is about 15 years younger than me, who is also a musician finishing his MM in Trumpet Performance.
Interestingly, my husband and I also met each other through my mother's connections. On the street on which I grew up, there was another family with six children who lived two houses a block away from us. The mother was a seamstress, and she would make warm, rabbit-fur hats or mink-fur clothes that my mother would sell at the factory where she worked. This was illegal to do during communism— nothing was allowed to be sold or distributed outside of the government’s permission. The youngest of the family is my husband today. In 2002, I married my husband, Marcel, who came with his family to Canada and the US in 1996. In 2016, my mother and step-father came and met my children in Paris, and we stayed there for 11 days. After 34 years, my aunt contacted me and we connected through FaceBook. When my family visited Romania in 2019, I visited her. We also attempted to visit my father with my husband and children, but he refused to see us.
In May 2019, when we attended my brother’s wedding in Romania, it was the last time I ever saw her. She had been fighting her battle against breast cancer. It was terrible to see her only via FaceTime through this period. She passed away last September, in 2020. I couldn’t even attend her funeral because of COVID. My brother and step-father were there to care for her to the last day. When you lose a parent, a strong emptiness sinks into your heart that only God and the hope of resurrection can fill— the hope that we will meet again someday.
In loving memory of Marioara Jencov, 1949-2020.
We as humans have the intrinsic nature of inheriting characteristics. Whether it's physical characteristics or personality traits, we are who we are because of those that have come before us. Throughout our journey of life, our mothers have a profound impact on us. Their nurturing natures mold us into the people we are today, down to our habits and personalities. We are the harvest of the seeds they sow. My mother passed many of her traits onto me — her passion for music, her meticulous tidiness, her business acumen, and her love for the Lord and compassion for others being a few notable ones. We honor our mothers for these traits that live on in us. Though they may not always be with us anymore, they live on in our hearts and our memories.