“To everything
there is a season, and a time to every purpose under God.” ~ Ecclesiastes
1:3
Joyce stood alone but for a
suitcase at the front steps of the St. Mary’s Home for unwed mothers. Long tangled hair encircled her face,
obscuring the layer of grime only broken by tear tracks. Her clothes were from a summer that passed
several months ago; cheekbones more pronounced than they should ever be on one
so young. At her age, she should be
cherubic, but instead she looked shocked, rejected, terrified.
Joyce got pregnant at 15 after her first sexual encounter
with a small-town boyfriend. She was now
3 months pregnant which had humiliated her fervently religious parents. During the 1950s and ‘60s, unwed mothers like
Joyce were often “encouraged” to put their babies up for adoption; sometimes
against their own free will.
Her parents banished her to St. Mary’s; the child’s father deserted
her. She had no other choice.
Joyce’s baby boy was born at Booth Hospital near St.
Mary’s. She spent less than an hour cuddling
her infant, before giving him away. Her
guilt at relinquishing the newborn never really faded.
After the delivery, no one in her family wanted her back.
So, Joyce stayed on at St. Mary’s; performing menial jobs
like mopping floors and doing laundry.
Over the years however, she attended night schools and earned both HS
and college degrees. Eventually, she
became a social worker there, counseling girls who’d been in her same position
... for the next 50 years.
During that time, St. Mary’s transformed from a place where
mother and child were separated, to a home where many mothers kept their babies
after birth and were counseled on how to return home with them.
“One day,” she began, “I was in the staff lounge when one of
our girls came in and said there was a man in the lobby who’d come because he
was tracing his own adoption. He wanted
answers about where he’d come from. His
parents had told him that he was born at St. Mary’s.
So, I met with him.”
“And right away a strange feeling came over me. It was his voice … his eyes … his sincerity. I felt as though I knew him. I asked him what his birthday was and he said
April 5, 1950.”
“And then I knew. I
knew he was my child. I put my arms
round him and everything melted away.
All my pain; every regret I ever had.”
And I knew it was a miracle.
And that’s why God had kept me at St. Mary’s.”
