From the Editor

Mother

“Once more a remnant of the kingdom of Judah

    will take root below and bear fruit above.”

Isaiah 37: 31

Mother at a coffe plantation in Costa Rica

 “I did everything I wanted to do.  I have no regrets.”

~ Reverend Stella Lucille Cooper Mosqueda ~

On December 31, 2012, at 7:15, in the morning, I lost the most remarkable woman I have ever known and the most influential person in my life: Rev. Stella Lucille Cooper Mosqueda, my Mother.

One evening, a few weeks ago, while Kate, Merry, and I sat in my Mother’s hospital room, I picked up her Bible.  My Mother was sleeping, and I thought I would read to myself.  The first thing I noticed was that I felt like I was somehow violating her privacy.  My Mother, like so many of us, not only underlines passages which matter to her, in her Bible, but she also made notations about the verses, mentioned other people’s names, and tucked papers in between the pages – notecards from loved ones, church programs, hand written notes, photographs, and of course a “Smiley Jesus” track to give away.

I tried to shake off my intrigue, and read a Psalms, she loved the Psalms; but I could not focus on the scripture, instead I kept looking at her notes.  There were multiple scriptures underlined, and I started to jot down the passages, in my notebook.

When I came upon Isaiah 37:31,  I was fascinated to see that at various times, based on ink color and writing, she had returned to this passage and been drawn to this notion “. . . will take root below and bear fruit above”.  It of course reminds me of the Hodding Carter quote: “There are only two lasting bequests we can hope to give our children.  One of these is roots; the other, wings.” I love that quote – was Carter inspired by Isaiah?  I do not know, but I do know that roots and wings make me think of what grounds us and what gives us courage to go forward.

In thinking of writing of my Mother, for these pages, my head and heart have been overwhelmed.  There is so much to be said, so much owed to pay proper respect to this woman who has meant everything to me and to so many others, as well.

In a few days, we will gather for her memorial service, where many of her family members will stand to publically pay their respects, there will be favorite hymns sung, favorite verses recited, and favorite stories told, just as it should be.  Undoubtedly, what will most be spoken of will be what mattered most to her – God.  My Mother loved the Lord, and lived to share the gospel.  She truly took to heart Jesus’ directive: “. . . Go into all of the world and preach the gospel to all creation.” (Mark 16:15).  There was nothing in her life more important than serving God.  She was still speaking about her next sermon, while she lay in that hospital bed, wondering if her new pastor would let her preach.  (I would like to think he would have, actually he just told me that he would have.)  At the time of her death, my Mother continued to hold credentials, a retired status, with the Assemblies of God.  She had studied to show herself approved (2 Timothy 2: 15), and unceasingly acquired knowledge with an insatiable appetite, until the very end.  Thus, as it should be, her love of God, her roots, will dominate her memorial, but there was another part to this woman – her fruit, her wings, her passion for life!

My Mother began her life in Southern Ohio, born into a large family, eleven children.  She survived childhood illness, which almost forced her to drop out of high school, because she had fallen so far behind in her studies.  It was Velma, her best friend, from high school, whose mother intervened and convinced Stella to go back to school.  When she finished high school, she applied to nursing school, which she could not get into without the signature of her doctor.  He had stated that she was not sufficiently fit physically to tackle the challenges of nursing; it took Mother months of pleading with him, before he finally acquiesced, after assuring her that she would fail – he was the doctor who had treated her for rheumatic fever, which then caused osteomyelitis, which lead to her right leg being deformed.  Mother of course not only finished nursing school, excelling, as she always did, but went on to work as nurse, until she turned 21.

On the day she turned 21, Velma’s mother drove Stella to the bus station, in Columbus, Ohio.  Mother was on her way to Cincinnati, where she was going to preach at a Bible school, which she did and where she received a ten dollar offering.  After the services, she was dropped off at the airport, where she boarded a plane for Miami; she had a one-way ticket to Cuba.  It was at the Pan American airline counter, where a very thoughtful agent, convinced Mother that she should have a round trip ticket.  He shared with her that there was a coup underway, in Cuba, and the pretty, young, American woman, may want to leave sooner than she thought.  She turned in her one-way ticket, and boarded her plane.

Her arrival in Cuba was everything she had expected, except that there was no one there to meet her.  Mother did not panic, she simply went into the ladies room to freshen up, and pray.  Within a few minutes a woman, speaking only Spanish, approached her, asking if she was Sister Estella?  Mother’s Latin served her well, she said yes, and followed the woman to a waiting car – ah, and some have wondered where I get it from?

The lady was the pastor’s wife; he drove them back to the parsonage, fed Mother, and then pointed out the back bench, in the church, which would be her bed.  She was okay with that, though she never had a good night’s sleep, on that bench.

In the following months, she would work in Rev Prieto’s church, teach herself fluent Spanish, by listening to the radio and reading only Spanish language newspapers, and teach English for pocket money, which she would use to rent a room from Candida.

It would be Candida who would introduce Mother to Daddy.  After two years in Cuba, it was time for Mother to leave.  She was to fly back to Columbus on a Monday afternoon, before she left; Candida invited her to attend a Pentecostal service, where the preacher, Ignacio Mosqueda, was supposed to be “on fire.”  Mother went to the service, and Daddy, from the pulpit, mentioned that there was a woman, in the congregation who was suffering from a gallbladder attack, and that God wanted to heal her.  He described details of what was happening in her body, and how she had been dealing with the pain, and she said she knew it was her he spoke of, even if she did not quite know how all of it worked.  She believed in divine healing, and knowing she was leaving the island the next day, decided she had nothing to lose, if she made a fool of herself.  She went forward, he prayed for her, and she said the pain instantly went away.

He walked her home that night, with Candida close behind, and Daddy asked Mother to stay at least one more day.  She agreed, provided he handled the paperwork of changing her ticket – she always hated paperwork.  He did the paperwork, and on Monday night took her to church, to hear him preach – his sermon:  “Will thou go with this man?  Isaac and Rebecca – rather romantic, at that; he once again walked her home, at the door, of Candida’s house, he reached over and closed her blouse, then Daddy gave Mother a jar of coconut candy, kissed her goodnight, and proposed marriage.  He took her to the airport, and for six months, while she put her affairs in order, he sent her letters, each with a sermon – he needed to make this Methodist into a Pentecostal, or so I think.

In six months, Mother returned to Cuba, they were married and began working together, full time, for God.  Their years in Cuba were the happiest of their life; they both felt that God had called them to minister to Cuban people.  Until I went to live in South Florida, I always believed that the biggest mistake of their life was to leave Cuba; but I was wrong, like I so often am. Mother said she did not want her children raised in a Godless nation; I always said that my parents would have assured that the Godless nation did not impact us, but that may not have been possible.  In the end, she ended up with three Pentecostal daughters, and that must have mattered more than leaving their beloved Cuba.

I have met so many Cubans in America, who have told me that when I go to Cuba, I will be disappointed to find that what is left is not the Cuba of our parent’s stories.  I am sure she was right, but I know that choice broke everyone’s heart.  My Mother loved Florida; it is only 90 miles from Cuba, where her heart beat faster and stronger and more passionately than anywhere else in the world.

Mother in Amsterdam

They would go into exile, and they would continue to serve God and have their adventures.  There would be good times again, and a lot of sad times; but through all of the ups and downs, there were certain things that never wavered in her life.  She would always share the Gospel, she would always tell us that most important thing in life was to be ready to meet our Savor; insuring that her roots were deeply planted in us.  However, Mother never forgot about the fruits of those roots.

I will never forget how jealous I was that my Mother made it to Africa before me, she was 70!  She never stopped going, doing, and learning; and she always made sure that I knew that is was okay for me to go too.  My parents gave me every spiritual root necessary, but they also lived lives to the fullest, knowing that every moment we had here had to matter too.

Taking a walk or drive with my Mother was a true delight; she would point out the planes, as Kate has written, and the flowers and trees, the birds and any other animal which passed her vista, the buildings, the people, the sunshine or rain.  She noticed everything and believed it all had value.  Mother was always open to new adventures and willing to try anything from some strange food to a church service in a language we did not come close to knowing.  She made life an adventure.  Yes, we grew up without what the world would call stability; but personally, I find stability over rated, I love adventure.

A few months after my Father died, my Mother gave me a thousand dollars, from his life insurance.  I had already decided that I was going to return to Europe and go to Israel, and she thought the money would help, which it did.  It was a lot of money to me, and I asked her if she was sure.  Mother answered telling me she was sure, she said: “Jill you have to go.  It is who you are, you need to go and see the world for yourself.  You cannot just read about it, some people can just sit and read about life; but you have to see the world for yourself, it is who we are, unfortunately you got that from both your Father and me.  It makes your life harder, but it also makes your life better, if you are willing to go.”

When we both lived in Long Beach, on Ocean Boulevard, with Marvin’s apartment in between us, I asked Mother to give me a taped, oral history.  Kate had taped Irene, Melody’s Mother’s, history, and I wanted one too.  She reluctantly agreed to make the cassettes, but would not let me sit and questioner her.  Mother said to write down your questions, and that she would answer them, though she grumbled about my passion for history, which I got from my Father.  She made my tapes, answered, or tried to answer my questions, and she shared her wisdom.  I feel so blessed to have been this woman’s daughter.

In the last few years, I have spent a lot of time with my Mother, talking about her life and adventures, talking about what it all had meant.  Last year, she told me she wished she had more children; but could not have afforded more than the three she had.  Other than that, she always said that she had no regrets, which is more than I can say.   Hopefully, I have a few years left, and I too can get to Africa or the Great Wall; after knowing that we are at peace with our Maker, the second most important thing is to die without regrets.  Thank you Mother, and that is all for now.

 Mother preaching in Africa

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This entry was posted on January 4, 2013 at 5:50 pm and is filed under From the Editor, LeftSide, SlideShow, The Dialogue, The Reverend’s Ignacio and Stella Cooper Mosqueda Book Scholarship. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.