A Chance to Do Good

Ryan Woods was diagnosed with cancer a little before Mom was. His diagnosis took longer to come through. The back tumor that was causing him walking difficulty was first thought to be an encapsulated mass that could be easily removed. Surgery revealed, though, that it was a spidery mess that could not be untangled. When the diagnosis finally came in, it was the worst news possible--glioblastoma, an aggressive brain cancer. The worst of the worst.

I've avoided sharing Ryan's story here since he's been doing such a good job of sharing it himself. It is, after all, his story. And, as it turns out, it's God's story as well. The miracle we've all prayed for has not happened. Ryan is on hospice and without an ubermiracle really soon, he'll be gone from us in a very short time. It's a shame, really, from my perspective, that such a young guy, so full of life and hope and dreams for God's kingdom in Vancouver, WA, will die so needlessly.

But I've got to admit, despite the unfairness of death, miracles large and small have spawned from Ryan's story. A community rallies around the one who expected to be the giver. A guy who wanted nothing to do with Jesus finds him through Ryan. The stories of sickness, fear, hope, and life are shared around the world.

There's not much we can do now. Nothing but pray (why does that never feel like enough?) and give.

Any little bit will help Ryan's family through the weeks and months ahead. His wife stopped working to take care of him. Rainn Wilson (of Office fame) did a short video on Ryan's last days and is now hosting a fundraiser on his behalf.

Click here. Watch the videos. Give something, even a little bit. Be a blessing to a family who has blessed us all.

P.S. I know that the end of Ryan's life will not be the end of his legacy. His wife Jessica is every bit as committed to sharing Jesus' love with the community. She is the picture of courage and faith.

Hinds' Feet on High Places

The helicopter makes a slow turn to put its nose to the wind. The mountain ridge rises to meet us as our pilot gently sets his skids on the mossy turf.

We aren't the first ones to visit the mountain top, as evidenced by the narrow trail up the ridge to the summit and the piles of mountain sheep scat scattered liberally about. I stay a safe distance back from the cliffs where these sheep make their home. Pellets of sleet strike my cheeks. The wind whips the ends of my hair that stick out from below the borrowed stocking cap.

It's our chance to say good-bye again, and to say it in style. It is another gift Mom left us, this hairbrained plot to lay her to rest atop the mountain she'd looked at from the valley floor for so many years. Somehow, from beyond the grave, she still pulls enough strings in the family to get her three children and beloved husband to gather on a mountain top... not for her, but for us. She always loved creating memories.

Two passages come to mind as we huddle on that ridge. The first one, Psalm 121, reminds me that when we lift our eyes to the hills, though we'll think of Mom, our real help comes from the maker of heaven, earth, mountains, and glaciers. The second seems so antiquated--like hind's feet on high places--but at the same time so appropriate. This mountain is an inhospitable place, yet the mountain sheep are at home, comfortable grazing on precarious cliffs. The passage eludes me, tendrils of phrases sliding through my consciousness.

We hug and cry and hug some more. The helicopter returns for us.

Hinds feet... hinds feet... the words tickle, begging me to hunt for them. It takes a few tries, but at last I find them. They are David's words, as many of the beautiful ones are. They bring me comfort to know that God, my rock, readies my feet for the walk ahead and takes me to heights I never imagined.

As for God, his way is perfect: The word of Jehovah is tried; His is a shield unto all them that take refuge in him. For who is God, save Jehovah? And who is a rock, save our God? God is my strong fortress; and he guideth the perfect in his way. He maketh his feet like hinds' feet, And setteth me upon my high places. (2 Samuel 22:31-34)

The Source

Jean de Florette, a brilliant French novel by Marcel Pagnol, tells the ultimately tragic story of the title character, a newcomer to Provence. Jean arrives in Provence eager to succeed as a gentleman farmer, but is foiled by two supposed friends who have blocked the spring that waters his arid land.

Rent the movie. Watch it and its sequel, Manon of the Spring, but be sure to pour yourself a tall glass of ice water before you do. There is nothing like the sight of brown dust, the sound of dried corn leaves crinkling in calloused hands, to work up a healthy thirst.

The image of Jean de Florette has rested with me for many years, a man defeated by lack of water and lack of hope. I picture a Togolese woman at the village well, hauling up gourds of water, hand over hand, 10 gourds to fill a basin, 20 basins to fill a barrel. A sheen of sweat rises on her forehead, glistening like stars against her dark skin in the heat of the morning sun. She balances the water atop her head and heads for home, careful not to spill a drop, knowing her precious load will not last. She must return for more this evening, and the next day...and the next.

No wonder the Samaritan woman perked up when Jesus offered her water that would never run dry.

No wonder David thirsted for water from the well near the gate of his hometown.

No wonder Solomon spoke of his lover as a well of flowing water, a high compliment in a thirsty land.

Meet me at the well, walk with me besides the quiet water and let your soul be restored.

Blocked

I can't tell you how many times in the past months I've sat down to write and found myself with nothing to say. If you want to know the truth, I've lost my drive since I lost my audience.

One of the first things you learn when you write for others is how important it is to identify your audience. Who is the one person you are writing for? I had a vague picture of my audience until she was gone.

Mom was the one who always read my blog first. Whenever she turned on her computer, my blog popped up automatically. And she was more likely than not to leave a comment either on the blog or in conversation throughout the day. She came to my writing groups, often with her own writing in hand. Precious pieces of manuscript lay in my file drawer, pieces I labored over to make as good as I could get them--pieces with handwritten notes from Mom that read, "Practically perfect, just like always," and "I love you. -Mom B"

So, who do I write for now? Who is that person who wants to hear what I have to say? Or maybe the question is, "How could anyone ever fill the place of Mom?"

Snapshots of a Life Well-Lived

Time Out

Somewhere through the muddled sleepiness of dreamland I had an epiphany. If you don't have anything to say, you shouldn't say anything.

Somewhere in the muddle of the past few weeks, I've lost my way with the blog. I find myself rambling about things I don't even care about...so why should anyone else. The blog has suffered, along with pretty much everything else, from lack of time and lack of energy.

Today, I declare a time out.

I'm not sure when I'll be back. It probably won't be long, but I need to give myself room to breathe, time to enjoy my kids' spring break, and permission to crash for a while.

I'll be back in the game soon.

Broken Hearted

As hard as it is to lose your mother, it's got to be a million times worse to lose your spouse. Dad chose Mom, committed to her, and stuck with her through ups and downs, thick and thin, better and worse for over 48 years. When she was gone, his heart was ripped in two, as if his "one flesh" had suddenly been torn apart.

Broken hearted, that's what he was. The doctor confirmed it.

On Monday morning, an angiogram confirmed it too. He had a 95% blockage to one side of his heart and a 95% blockage to the other. He would not be released from the hospital, or even from his bed, but would be sent straight upstairs to the cardiac ICU and put into the first slot for heart surgery, first thing Tuesday morning.

3 bypasses later, he's already shuffling around the progressive care unit. He took a ten minute walk this morning, more than he could have done before. He'll go home tomorrow or Sunday, but not in time for Mom's scheduled memorial service, so we've postponed it until a later date.

Dad's heart is healing up. They say in 6-8 weeks he'll be good as new.

I wish his other broken heart could heal so swiftly.

Prayers for you, Dad. I love you.

It Takes a Village

They say it takes a village to raise a child. After living in Africa, where kids roam about under the watchful eye of everyone, I've seen how it's true. What I've recently experienced, though, makes me realize that it is as much a group effort to usher someone out of life as it is to welcome them in.

It takes a husband...

Over the past 6 months, Dad tended tirelessly and without fail to Mom's every need. Day and night, he waited on her, doled out her meds, made sure she was eating and drinking, covered her when she was cold. He moved her from bed to chair and back again as many times a day as she wanted to move. He gave up his hobbies and his love for puttering outdoors to be close to her. He fulfilled his promises of 48 years ago... "For better or for worse, in sickness and in health..." He faced the worst and made the best of it.

It takes a son or two...

Both of my brothers put their lives on hold to serve their mother and father. David spent as many weekends as he could with Mom, always coming up with something he thought would please her. He painted the kitchen. He took family portraits. He brought over tidbits of anything he thought would taste good to her. He presented her with one of the most precious gifts she ever received, a video of our family that she watched over and over, insisting that everyone who walked through the door would watch it with her. He curled up next to her on the bed and held her hand. And when Mom was gone and there was nothing left to do for her, he ministered to Dad, spending a whole week helping him get adjusted.

Geoffrey made the trek down from Alaska an astounding once a month since October. It made me proud to see how he cared for Mom, how he was able to be still and quiet and minister to her, especially on his last 2 visits. He, too, brought gifts of joy to her, drawings by his son, pictures of his children, and the gift of laughter.

It takes some in-laws...

Without 3 wonderful spouses, my brothers and I couldn't have been there with Mom and Dad like we were. All three of our spouses said, "Go. I'll take care of things at home."

It takes a church...

Mom and Dad have a wonderful support groups from church, both local and universal. People dropped by with flowers, food, funny stories to share. People sent movies, cleaned up the yard, dusted the cobwebs. People surrounded us at church. A couple of ladies invited me for an occasional lunch or coffee, just to revive my spirit. People flew in from Alaska and Idaho, drove in from all over Washington, Oregon, and California. And people sent cards...dozens and dozens of beautiful, heart-felt, hand written cards that brought joy to Mom every day.

It takes a nurse...

I don't know what we would have done without nurse Cathey. She offered a bit of sanity to our Mondays over the last few months. She was the one who could answer our questions, who could tell us what to expect next, or that it was okay to not know what was coming next. We learned to trust her to do her best for Mom and for all of us. We'll miss her.

It takes a boss...

My co-workers blessed me so much with the freedom to be as available to Mom and Dad as I needed to be. They covered for me, they prayed with me and for me, they understood. My brothers experienced the same thing... "Go." When Geoffrey ran out of leave, his co-workers donated leave days so he could be here. What a tremendous sacrifice.

It takes a pharmacist...

I can't tell you what a blessing it was for Jim to reach through his pharmacy window the night before Mom died, grasp both my hands, and pray with me. If I ever hesitate to pray with someone who is hurting, I hope I will remember how it touched my heart for him to ignore the line behind me and minister not only to my mother's body, but to my soul.

It takes a generation...

The grandkids brought such joy to Mom in her last months and weeks. Even when she didn't feel like doing anything for herself, she had an ear to listen to her granddaughters. Little videos of the young grandsons were sure to bring a smile to her face. When I said good-bye to her the last time before she went to sleep, I told her I was going to pick up my daughters and I'd be back later. She reached out to me and said, "Tell them I love them very much." It's a memory I'll cherish always. My mom's last words to me were of her love for my children. I'll tell them, Mom. Again and again.

It takes a family.

A Loss for Words

For someone who revels in using words to communicate, to paint pictures, to express emotion, I find myself at a loss for words. There is nothing I can say to tell you how truly special my mother was. She lived with grace and died in grace on Friday, March 2. And though I miss her already, I wish I could make you understand the gift of peace she left with me as she stepped in full assurance into the arms of Jesus. I'll share some stories of her legacy here from time to time, but for now I'd like to hold those memories close to my chest. There's plenty of time for story telling later.

My Mom

Betty Wyatt

January 3, 1943 - March 2, 2012

A Gentle Touch

Back in grade school, when they made us go to the old folks home for a service project, I felt sorry for those old people who stared out through wizened eyes, trapped inside bodies that were tired of housing them. I pitied them their inability to walk, to wet their own lips, to carry on coherent conversation. I remember holding hands softened and spotted by age, and I was both drawn in and repulsed by an obvious hunger for human touch.

I never imagined that one day I'd be holding my mom's hand, stroking her soft and spotted skin and listening to her rattle off  words strung together in sentences and paragraphs that make sense only to her. I never realized that time marches relentlessly on, turning the child to parent to grandparent to fragile shell.

Now I know.

As I grew up and came to understand what care of what an aging parent might entail, I started dreading it. These past weeks though, as I 've watched Mom slip away day by day, I've been overwhelmed with the kind of love that wells up in me, a love that I as a selfish kid could never have imagined. The things I always thought would be too hard to handle, the baser aspects of care, are not as difficult as I expected...not because they are easy or pleasant, but because she is my mom and I love her.

I appreciate that there are facilities that will care for the elderly members of our community, but I am so happy that Mom is not in one of them. Instead being cared for by strangers, she is constantly monitored by Dad (married 48 years this week!) and surrounded by both my brothers and I. Our spouses have all stepped up and given us permission to grant the gift of time to our parents. Mom is still able to express her needs on a basic level and has even rallied to offer smiles and encouragement to those who have visited, but she is settling into a quieter time and spends most of her day either sleeping or trying to communicate with each of us. She knows who we are, which is a great comfort most of the time and somewhat hilarious at others (as when she sighs and shakes her head and says, "Oh, Patty." I don't know what I've done, but it's clear she's disappointed in me. I suspect it is because Dad has conscripted me to his side in the ongoing battle over medications.)

In these final weeks or perhaps days of her life, I hope she can feel my love. It's the least I can give her after all she's done for me. 

News to Me

Being naive can only carry you so far. So, you watch the news, read the headlines, and trust the news magazines to give you up-to-date, succinct information on what's important and true. At least that's what I've been doing.

Until now.

Let me preface what I'm going to say by admitting that I am not a political junkie. I am dismayed by what I see happening in government, but I rarely think the choices of candidates that come up will offer any real solutions or do anything to change the status quo. I can't even get my family to change the way we do things. The idea of changing an entire nation is daunting, bordering on impossible.

My husband, on the other hand, is a die-hard Ron Paul fan, has been for years. Before any of the rest of us even knew the Federal Reserve is neither federal nor a reserve, Dr. Paul was calling for an audit. Before we felt the shakiness of our dollar, he was pushing for a return to the gold standard. When my husband would talk about these issues and more, it sounded like "Mwah-wah-wah-wah," like the mother on the Charlie Brown cartoons.

Apparently that's what it sounds like to the media. Over the past months, I've been astounded by the way the mainstream media has handled Ron Paul. Or, to be more precise, the way they have avoided handling him. In a primary where Dr. Paul took 3rd place, the news mentioned those in 1st, 2nd and 4th, and didn't even say his name. In poll after poll and debate after debate, his name is conspicuously missing from follow-up reports.

This week, for example, Chris Matthews spent 8 minutes talking about the results of a favorables/unfavorables poll of the GOP candidates. Not once in the report did he mention Ron Paul, who actually WON the poll!

If this was an isolated incident, I might not even notice, but it's been going on for months. The press feeds us information about Romney, Gingrich, Santorum, and all those other guys who surged and then fell out of the race, but says very little about Paul who is the most consistent in his policies and who refuses to change his tune based on what he thinks voters want to hear.

What else is the press not telling us? Are they covering up information or are they merely catering to a population who wants its information pre-chewed?

Consider Time Magazine and the way it waters down the news for its American audience. While the rest of the world sees cover images of the new president of Italy, the uprising in Syria, the rising star of China, American covers are graced with fluff about dogs who love each other, the uselessness of marriage and...Glenn Beck.

Really?

So, much as I hate to dig into what's really going on in the world, I've reached the conclusion that I can no longer trust the news sources I've always turned to. I find myself flipping radio stations between Rush Limbaugh and NPR, hoping that by averaging the voices, I can somehow find truth somewhere in the middle.

Filling My Bookshelf

I haven't had a lot of time for writing lately, but I have done a bit of editing. Editing, I've got to say, is not a glamorous job. It fits me, though, as I can be a bit of a stickler for grammar, punctuation and spelling. I've got great appreciation for a well-turned phrase or a vivid word picture. And I love to have a hand in turning something with potential into something that is ready to be released into the world. One of the funnest things about editing is seeing my bookshelf fill with projects I've had a hand in bringing to life. Each one holds a special place in my heart, each for a different reason.

The first book I had a hand in taking to print was Jessie: The Story of a Genteel Lady in Frontier Alaska, written by my mom. I designed the cover for her and walked through the whole process of writing, editing, formatting, uploading, and (finally) holding a book in my hands. It was a proud day when that first copy of Jessie arrived in the mail. Mom still gets a thrill out of sharing Jessie's story through her book and I'm still proud of her.

Next came Bon Voyage: Interactive Devotions for the Cruise Ship Traveler, a dandy little devotional book by a very talented friend, Laurie Kuykendall.

Nicodemus is a historical novel about the life of Nicodemus by Keith Farris. Keith went through an in-depth study to put Nicky's story down on paper. His knowledge of 1st  century Jerusalem is evident.

Both Laurie and Keith were members of my writing critique group until last year.

It was my great pleasure to help with Jeanne Stinson's book, I Dream of Jeanne, in which she told stories of her own life. From her earliest memories of living in Africa in the 1920s to her adventures living aboard a boat, she recounted the highs and lows of her life for her friends and family to have something to remember her by, not that we could ever forget this dear, sweet lady. It worked, too. Much of her funeral service was read from these pages in her own words. (And if the cover looks familiar, it's because of all the designs I offered her, she chose the one that looked most like Jessie.)

At the end of last year, I helped edit a book that came out in eformat only, the third in an epic series about the tribes of Shem and Cain before the great flood. It is called The First Apocalypse by Gary Reidl.


A couple of years ago, I edited a book for Heidi St. John called The Busy Homeschool Mom's Guide to Romance: Nurturing Your Marriage Through the Homeschool Years. Next week, her second book will release. This one is called The Busy Homeschool Mom's Guide to Daylight: Managing Your Days Through the Homeschool Years. It was fun to work on both of these books. Heidi inspires me with the way she manages her family of 7 children with energy, humor and grace. I'd say these books are not only for homeschool moms, but for any mom who wants to keep the love alive and who wants ways to organize her world. She's also coming out with a no-pressure journal for busy moms. You can pre-order (with free shipping this week) here.

It's been fun to see my little bookshelf filling with the words of friends who have worked so hard to make their work ready to face the world. I have one other book I hope to add to my shelf next week, but it's not quite ready to reveal . (No, it's not my own. I wish. But I'm almost as excited as if it was.)

Congratulations to all my writer buddies. I'm happy to be part of your writing journey!

From my Family to Yours

All photography and video editing credit goes to brother David. Thank you!

A Eustace Scrubb Kind of Day

Yesterday was a Eustace Scrubb kind of day.

Do you remember Eustace? He's the selfish brat of a hero who was sucked into Narnia with his cousins, hopeless saps all.

Eustace made a full time job of complaining until the Dawn Treader made land on Deathwater Island. It is a desolate place in the Eastern Ocean, beaten by fierce winds and prone to drenching storms, home to a magical pool that turns anything, including greedy sailors, into solid gold. It is also home to an impressive dragon's treasure lair, as Eustace discovered.

When Eustace found the treasure, he vowed to keep it himself. He reveled in the richness of it until he curled up amongst the heaps of gold and jewels and fell asleep. When he awoke, he found that a bracelet he had easily slipped about his arm the day before had tightened so that it cut into his skin. His skin, he found, had turned tough and scaled. His selfish pride had transformed him into a dragon.

Eustace went through some major attitude changes in his time as a dragon. He wanted nothing more than to be turned back into a boy, but he hadn't the power to do it himself. Finally, he submitted himself to Aslan's mighty claws and allowed the lion to flay him open and peel back his tough exterior, revealing through the painful process his own tender pink skin.

My issue isn't greed. It isn't brattyness or snottiness--at least I hope it's not. My issue is security. A few months ago, I didn't even know it, but I've come to realize that I am looking for security in all the wrong places. I don't need much, just a roof over my head, a stable family, enough money to pay the bills with a little left over for an occasional movie or pair of socks. I wrapped myself in the tough skin of safety until God started flaying me open.

First Mom's health, then my husband's job. Or was it the other way around? I can't recall. I feel the all-at-onceness of it.

Jesus dug his claws into my thickened skin. I cried for him to stop, but I know he has to finish the job or I will never be who he intends me to be. He peels back the layers of self-reliance and leaves me vulnerable and--I'm sorry to say--prone to weeping.

I wish I could say he'd finished his work, but I'm afraid there's a lot more of me to tear away. I clench my teeth and close my eyes and submit to whatever he needs to do. I cry out, "I can't take any more!" but he knows how much I can stand. He knows that I, like Eustace, will become the person he wants me to be if I will only let him skin me.

For the English Connoisseur

I wish I'd written this, but alas, the Poke beat me to it. In honor of my dad on his birthday, give this poem a try.


After trying the verses, a Frenchman said he’d prefer six months of hard labour to reading six lines aloud. My guess is that Dad would feel the same way about any poem written in French. Happy birthday, Dad!

Dearest creature in creation,
Study English pronunciation.
I will teach you in my verse
Sounds like corpse, corps, horse, and worse.
I will keep you, Suzy, busy,
Make your head with heat grow dizzy.
Tear in eye, your dress will tear.
So shall I! Oh hear my prayer.
Just compare heart, beard, and heard,
Dies and diet, lord and word,
Sword and sward, retain and Britain.
(Mind the latter, how it’s written.)
Now I surely will not plague you
With such words as plaque and ague.
But be careful how you speak:
Say break and steak, but bleak and streak;
Cloven, oven, how and low,
Script, receipt, show, poem, and toe.
Hear me say, devoid of trickery,
Daughter, laughter, and Terpsichore,
Typhoid, measles, topsails, aisles,
Exiles, similes, and reviles;
Scholar, vicar, and cigar,
Solar, mica, war and far;
One, anemone, Balmoral,
Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel;
Gertrude, German, wind and mind,
Scene, Melpomene, mankind.
Billet does not rhyme with ballet,
Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.
Blood and flood are not like food,
Nor is mould like should and would.
Viscous, viscount, load and broad,
Toward, to forward, to reward.
And your pronunciation’s OK
When you correctly say croquet,
Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,
Friend and fiend, alive and live.
Ivy, privy, famous; clamour
And enamour rhyme with hammer.
River, rival, tomb, bomb, comb,
Doll and roll and some and home.
Stranger does not rhyme with anger,
Neither does devour with clangour.
Souls but foul, haunt but aunt,
Font, front, wont, want, grand, and grant,
Shoes, goes, does. Now first say finger,
And then singer, ginger, linger,
Real, zeal, mauve, gauze, gouge and gauge,
Marriage, foliage, mirage, and age.
Query does not rhyme with very,
Nor does fury sound like bury.
Dost, lost, post and doth, cloth, loth.
Job, nob, bosom, transom, oath.
Though the differences seem little,
We say actual but victual.
Refer does not rhyme with deafer.
Fe0ffer does, and zephyr, heifer.
Mint, pint, senate and sedate;
Dull, bull, and George ate late.
Scenic, Arabic, Pacific,
Science, conscience, scientific.
Liberty, library, heave and heaven,
Rachel, ache, moustache, eleven.
We say hallowed, but allowed,
People, leopard, towed, but vowed.
Mark the differences, moreover,
Between mover, cover, clover;
Leeches, breeches, wise, precise,
Chalice, but police and lice;
Camel, constable, unstable,
Principle, disciple, label.
Petal, panel, and canal,
Wait, surprise, plait, promise, pal.
Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair,
Senator, spectator, mayor.
Tour, but our and succour, four.
Gas, alas, and Arkansas.
Sea, idea, Korea, area,
Psalm, Maria, but malaria.
Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean.
Doctrine, turpentine, marine.
Compare alien with Italian,
Dandelion and battalion.
Sally with ally, yea, ye,
Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, and key.
Say aver, but ever, fever,
Neither, leisure, skein, deceiver.
Heron, granary, canary.
Crevice and device and aerie.
Face, but preface, not efface.
Phlegm, phlegmatic, ass, glass, bass.
Large, but target, gin, give, verging,
Ought, out, joust and scour, scourging.
Ear, but earn and wear and tear
Do not rhyme with here but ere.
Seven is right, but so is even,
Hyphen, roughen, nephew Stephen,
Monkey, donkey, Turk and jerk,
Ask, grasp, wasp, and cork and work.
Pronunciation (think of Psyche!)
Is a paling stout and spikey?
Won’t it make you lose your wits,
Writing groats and saying grits?
It’s a dark abyss or tunnel:
Strewn with stones, stowed, solace, gunwale,
Islington and Isle of Wight,
Housewife, verdict and indict.
Finally, which rhymes with enough,
Though, through, plough, or dough, or cough?
Hiccough has the sound of cup.
My advice is to give up!!!

English Pronunciation by G. Nolst Trenité

Great Women

Joan of Arc
Susan B. Anthony
Harriett Beecher Stowe
Jane Austen
Shirley Temple Black
Clara Barton
Pearl S. Buck
Catherine the Great
Cleopatra
Madame Curie
Amelia Earhart
Indira Gandhi
Helen Keller
Juliette Low
Mary
Catherine de Medici
Mother Theresa
Florence Nightingale
Rosa Parks
Pocahontas
Queen Victoria
Eleanor Roosevelt
Sarah
Margaret Thatcher
Harriet Tubman
Betty Wyatt

Happy Birthday, Mom! In my list of great women of history, you're the tops!