My mother loved hugs. Absolutely cherished them. Gave them every chance she could.
But it wasn’t until near the end of her life that I truly understood why. I finally asked her about the nearly 100 year old photograph below. Yes, it has somewhat of a ghostly look, as well it should.
I wish I could talk to Mom now. If I could, I might say to her the following words:
{When you were small, you suffered great cruelty and injustice.
You loved your doll so much.
But your mean uncle, when in one of his drunken stupors, took it from you. He said you were hugging your beloved doll too much, spending too much time with it. He threw it away. "It's gone forever", he told you.
I suppose others simply thought you’d misplaced your doll, or perhaps had grown tired of it. You suffered on in silence for years, never telling on your uncle, and never asking for another doll.
No wonder you cherished and hugged your own children so much once you had them.
My sisters and I became that doll, constantly loved and cherished and hugged by you.}
I taught nearly two thousand men over a twenty-four-year period at the Bristol Jail. Many of them had poor or nonexistent relationships with their parents, which I came to view as one of the primary “predictors” for becoming incarcerated later on in life. It became apparent to me how amazingly blessed we are when we have good parents (no, there are no “perfect” ones).
I was sadly astounded by how many men I taught at the jail who had never even known one or more of their biological parents.
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