揪心的愛

林榮峰 | Emily Lee

媽媽三十歲生下我，家裡已經有一個大哥、兩個姐姐。戰後的台灣，特別是大家庭，總希望多子多孫。兩個姐姐出生後，全家期待著有個兒子。於是，在一個美好的春天，我呱呱落地。然而祖父聽說又是個女孩，頓時興致缺缺，我的命運似乎從那刻起就註定了。

雖然後來又有了三個弟弟，但我夾在七個兄弟姐妹中間，從來不用承擔什麼責任。父母既沒有力氣管我，也無心栽培我，所以我在一個「自由的國度」裡長大，大家看我就像個野孩子。

媽媽把兩個姐姐打扮得像公主，學才藝、穿講究；我則例外，隨便就好。記得小時候，有客人來訪，見到我後對媽媽說：「妳女兒好漂亮！」媽媽卻淡淡地說：「這是醜的。」這句話深深地刻在我心裡。長大出國後，常有人稱讚我漂亮，我心裡總會打個問號：你們沒見過我兩個姐姐吧？她們才漂亮，她們像媽媽，而我則像祖母——爸爸的媽媽。

媽媽有個手藝很好的裁縫師朋友，很喜歡我。有一天，她甚至問媽媽能不能把我送給她當女兒。回家後，媽媽笑著告訴我：「這個阿姨會很疼妳，把妳當寶貝呢！」但我心裡卻失望極了：怎麼媽媽要把我給出去？從那天起，我常常想：我是不是這個家裡多餘的人？

每逢年節祭祖，媽媽總會把雞塊分給大家：大哥、弟弟們愛雞腿，姐姐們愛雞翅……我總是靜靜地等到最後，媽媽會說：「妳什麼骨頭都會啃。」我便默默撿起大家剩下的雞皮、雞骨頭，也吃得津津有味。出國前的一次，我看著廚房裡的雞，鼓起勇氣問：「媽媽，我可以吃雞腿嗎？」她卻回答：「不行。」這讓我想起小時候當婚禮花童時，賺來三次雞腿的美好滋味。來到美國後，看著到處都是的雞肉，我感嘆：上帝真是太恩待我了！直到今天，我還常請先生每週幫我買一隻雞，百吃不厭。

1966 年，我準備來美國留學。媽媽帶我去委託行買禮物，卻不是為我，而是買給美國的大哥、大嫂，要我帶去送他們。最後才在普通的店裡，隨便給我買了點東西。當時我告訴自己：我出國，用了父母這麼多錢，也沒覺得有什麼不對。臨出國前，我忍不住問媽媽：「以前大哥出國時妳不是這樣的，為什麼這次一直替他們操心？」她說：「這樣子，妳去了，他們才會照顧妳啊！」我心裡暗暗想：我出去唸書，不去看他們也沒關係呀！

我內心深處總覺得媽媽不疼我，總想發火問問她。

教會裡常唱《母愛真偉大》的詩歌，但我有時真感受不到母愛的偉大和慈祥，總想當面問她：什麼是母愛？

終於有一次，她來紐約二姐家住，卻已經有高血壓、糖尿病了。我卻怎麼也開不了口，話到嘴邊又吞了回去。

後來看了許多心理學的書，我學會了一個功課：轉念。開始想，如今的我，已經是成熟的妻子、母親；而媽媽呢？她從小失去母親，只能寄人籬下、輾轉親戚和保母之間長大。後來在台大醫院附設的產婆學校畢業，成了接生婆。婚後接連生了七個孩子，一個接一個，無怨無悔。她很偉大。如今她老了，我應該像疼孩子一樣去愛她、照顧她。

從那之後，我對她的語氣完全變了，會噓寒問暖。

有一天，大哥打電話來邀我們陪媽媽一起搭郵輪。以前父親在時，都是大哥安排弟妹們陪著父母旅行，從沒邀過我。如今父親去世三年，媽媽最想再去一次溫哥華的維多利亞花園，卻沒人能陪她。她問到我們時，我受寵若驚，馬上答應，還堅持自己出錢，不想受人招待。那趟旅程，我和媽媽就像好朋友一樣，無話不談，她也告訴我許多藏在心裡的秘密。

後來她身體越來越虛弱，無法再來美國。我便盡量每年回台灣一兩個月，專心陪她，不告訴別人。每天只是陪她看電視、讀聖經、唱聖詩……晚上哄她上床時，她總是笑著說，像在天堂一樣滿足。每次我要回紐約時，她總捨不得地問：「什麼時候再回來？」

直到她九十歲生日那天，我偷偷回去，給她一個驚喜。就在那最開心的時刻，接到兒子從美國打來的電話，說生下一個七磅重的兒子，母子平安。媽媽聽到後，高興得合不攏嘴，不住向上帝感恩，說這是她九十歲生日收到的最大禮物——一個與她同一天生日、相差九十歲的孫子！

那天蛋糕吃完，我們送她去醫院做健康檢查，只聽見她在病房裡高聲禱告，感謝上帝的恩典，滿心喜樂。

沒想到不到十天，主就接她回天家了。雖然不捨，但我知道，她是心滿意足地離開了，去找父親了。

我感謝有這樣一位媽媽。最重要的是：她把信仰傳給了我，讓我也能堅定不移，直到我回天家的那一刻，再與她相聚。

媽媽，我愛妳！

中文 | English

A Heart-Wrenching Love

My mother gave birth to me when she was thirty years old. By then, she already had an older son and two older daughters. In post-war Taiwan, especially in big families, everyone hoped for more children — and after two daughters, everyone eagerly anticipated a son.

So, on a beautiful spring day, I was born. But when my grandfather heard that it was yet another girl, he lost all interest. It felt as though my fate had been sealed at that very moment.

Later, three younger brothers followed, but as the fourth of seven children, I was sandwiched in the middle. I was expected to take on no real responsibility, and my parents had neither the energy nor the intention to guide or cultivate me. I grew up in a “kingdom of freedom,” and everyone just saw me as a wild child.

My mother dressed my two sisters like princesses — learning all sorts of skills, beautifully dressed and admired. I was the exception. It didn’t matter what I wore.

I remember once, when I ran out to greet some guests, one of them said to my mother, “Your daughter is so pretty.” My mother replied flatly, “This one is ugly.” I never forgot that moment. Even when I grew up and moved abroad, and people often praised me for my looks, I always doubted it. I thought to myself, “You’ve never seen my two sisters — they’re the beautiful ones. They look like Mother. I only look like my grandmother, my father’s mother.”

My mother had a single, skilled seamstress friend who really liked me. I often accompanied my mother to visit her or to pick up new clothes. One day, this woman asked my mother if she could adopt me as her daughter.

That evening, my mother casually told me, “That auntie said she’d treat you like a treasure if you went to live with her.” But I felt bitterly disappointed: Why would my mother want to give me away?

From that day on, I often wondered: Am I just extra in this family?

During the Lunar New Year and other festivals, when we slaughtered chickens for the ancestral offerings, Mother would divide the pieces of chicken among everyone. My brothers loved the drumsticks, my sisters the wings. I would sit quietly and wait for my portion. Mother would say, “You’ll chew on any old bone,” and I would obediently pick at the skin and scraps left on the plates, savoring every bite.

I still remember, before I left for abroad, looking at a chicken in the kitchen when my brothers weren’t home yet, and asking, “Mother, can I have a drumstick?” She simply replied, “No.”

That reminded me of how, as a child, I was a flower girl at several weddings and “earned” three drumsticks as my reward — three delicious memories that made me love chicken all the more.

When I arrived in America and saw how plentiful chicken was everywhere, I exclaimed, “God has been so good to me!” To this day, I still tell my husband to buy me a whole chicken every week — and I never tire of it.

In 1966, when I was preparing to come to the United States to study, Mother took me to an upscale store to buy gifts. But the gifts weren’t for me — they were for my older brother and sister-in-law in America. Only afterward did she take me to a regular store to buy a few things for myself.

At that moment, I told myself: I’m going abroad, I’ve cost my parents so much already — it’s okay.

But a few days before I left, I finally summoned the courage to ask: “When you were preparing for Brother to go abroad, it wasn’t like this. Why are you still worrying about him now, when it’s me who’s leaving?”

She answered: “This way, when you get there, they’ll take care of you.”

I thought: I’m going to study. I don’t even need to see them!

Deep down, I always felt my mother didn’t love me, and I longed to ask her why.

In church, we often sang hymns about how great a mother’s love is. But sometimes, I really couldn’t feel it — I couldn’t see how her love was great or tender. I longed for the chance to ask her face to face: What is a mother’s love?

The chance finally came when she visited my second sister’s home in New York. But by then, she already had high blood pressure and diabetes. The words stuck in my throat, and I swallowed them back down.

Later, after reading many books on psychology, I finally learned to change my perspective. I began to realize: by then, I was already a grown woman, a wife, and a mother myself. But Mother had lost her own mother as a child and grew up being passed around among relatives and nannies.

Later, she graduated from the midwifery school at National Taiwan University Hospital and became a midwife. Then, after marriage, she bore seven children, one after another. She really was remarkable.

Now that she was old, I decided I should treat her like my own child — to nourish and love her.

From that point on, my tone with her completely changed. I began to ask after her well-being with warmth and tenderness.

One day, my oldest brother called and invited us to join Mother on a cruise. In the past, when Father was alive, my brother often arranged trips for my siblings to accompany them, but never invited me.

Now, three years after Father passed, Mother longed to visit Victoria Garden in Vancouver again. No one else had time to accompany her, so she asked us.

I was flattered and immediately agreed — but insisted on paying my own way.

On that trip, I truly became her friend. We talked about everything. She even shared with me secrets she had never been able to tell anyone else.

Later, when her health grew weaker and she could no longer come to America, I tried to return to Taiwan for a month or two each year, just to focus on being with her.

I didn’t tell anyone. Every day, I simply sat with her, watched TV, read the Bible, sang hymns… Those were joyful, full days.

When I tucked her into bed at night, she would smile and say it felt like heaven. Every time I had to return to New York, she would ask me reluctantly, “When will you come back again?”

Finally, on her ninetieth birthday, I secretly flew home to surprise her. At that happiest moment, my son called from America to announce that his wife had given birth to a healthy, seven-pound son.

Mother was overjoyed, saying this was the greatest birthday gift God had ever given her — a grandson born on her birthday, exactly ninety years apart.

After the birthday cake was finished, we took her to the hospital for a check-up, just to be cautious. There, I heard her praying loudly in her hospital room, thanking God for this incredible gift, completely satisfied and full of joy.

Less than ten days later, the Lord called her home.

Though I was heartbroken at her sudden passing, I knew she left this world with nothing more to ask for — and went to join my father in heaven.

I am deeply grateful for having such a mother. Most importantly: she passed on her faith to me, steadfast and unwavering, until the day I go home to heaven and see her again.

Mom, I love you!