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<p>When I was a young boy growing up in the Polish American community of Lynn, Massachusetts, during World War II, my mother used to tell me stories about my maternal grandmother. A remarkable lady who came to the United States from Poland with four sisters to forge a new life, she died during the Depression, before I got the chance to know her. I wish I had. </p>
<p>Her name was Helena. She married my grandfather and they had two children — my mother and uncle. Unfortunately, my grandfather died following an accident in a local factory when my mother and uncle were young children. </p>
<h3><b>Pioneer in Medicine</b> </h3>
<p>My grandmother realized that as a widow with two children, she had to find a way to support her family. Having mastered English sufficiently well, Helena decided to go to Chicago, where she studied to be a midwife. Her keen intelligence and passion for her vocation immediately came to the attention of the medical doctors who taught midwives. One of the doctors urged her to continue her studies and earn a medical degree. </p>
<p>After all, the gender barrier in medicine had been broken in the United States by Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell. Grandma was a great admirer of Dr. Anna Tomaszewicz-Dobrska, who was the first woman in Poland to earn a medical degree. Helena toyed briefly with the idea but realized that her primary responsibility was to her young children — my mother and uncle. </p>
<p>She returned to Lynn and embarked on her vocation with passion and skill. During the years of her practice in the Polish American enclave in West Lynn, she never lost a baby. She even won the grudging admiration of the male-dominated medical profession in the city. In fact, one physician, not a Polish American, recommended her to a patient on one occasion when he was performing emergency surgery on a woman, who eventually died in childbirth. </p>
<p>Midwives worked within the ethnic enclave of which they were a vital part. But sometimes circumstances called on some midwives to deliver babies of other backgrounds. There was one occasion when my grandmother received a telephone call from a man with a thick Italian accent. He had tried to contact a respected Italian midwife who was engaged with another patient. She recommended my grandmother to him. </p>
<p>When Grandma arrived at the Italian American home, she was greeted by silence and scowls from family members of the pregnant woman. Undeterred by the unfriendly welcome, Grandma went to work and delivered a healthy, eight-pound baby boy. Smiles replaced scowls in that Italian American household. Her payment: two long rolls of Genoa salami! She received Genoa salami from the family every Christmas in the years that followed. </p>
<p>Helena’s keen intelligence was matched by a passionate devotion to her Catholic faith. My mother told me that Grandma Helena began every day by attending Mass. </p>
<p>“You must talk to God before you begin your day,” she used to say to my mother and uncle. As a midwife, she had a special devotion to St. Raymond Nonnatus, the 12th-century Spanish saint who is the patron of midwives. “Nonnatus” is a Latin word that means “not born.” It refers to the birth of St. Raymond by Caesarean section. Unfortunately, his mother died giving birth to him. </p>
<p>From all accounts, Grandma Helena was a force of nature. She was extremely intelligent, devoted to her God and profession, and a loving, kind, generous mother. She never met a stranger, always welcoming people off the street into her home. A new neighbor, an elderly acquaintance who needed a good meal — no matter who was at the door, my grandmother gave them a hug and a place at the kitchen table. My mother seemed to be a replica of my grandmother — a hardworking blur in an apron with a big personality and an equally big heart. </p>
<h3><b>Entertaining Angels Unaware</b> </h3>
<p>She lived at a time of economic hardship, especially for immigrants. It was not uncommon to hear a knock on the door from a complete stranger in need of food. Polish American families routinely had a pot of stew or vegetable soup simmering on top of their stoves not only for their own families but also for strangers in need. </p>
<p>My mother told me that, after returning home from a busy day delivering two babies for which she was paid in kind — eggs, milk and a chicken — because the families were too poor to pay in currency, she sat in the kitchen waiting for my mother and uncle to return from school, which was located a short distance down the street. </p>
<p>She heard a faint tapping on the back door. When she opened it, Helena was greeted by a handsome young man with long brown hair and deep blue eyes that reached out and enveloped her. He radiated a warmth that, combined with his delicate manner, exuded a spirituality that was uncommon among anyone she ever knew. </p>
<p>The young man, dressed in clothes reminiscent of another period in history, quietly asked her, “May I have something to eat and drink?” </p>
<p>My grandmother without hesitation invited him to the kitchen table, gave him a glass of water and put the tea kettle on the stove. She found the largest dish in the kitchen and ladled the vegetable soup that had been simmering on the stove most of the day. </p>
<p>She never took her eyes off the gentle man who quietly sat at the table. </p>
<p>He ate the food, all the while smiling at my grandmother. His entire persona was so compelling that she felt that she was in the presence of a holy man. </p>
<p>Grandma Helena never had met anyone like him, she often told my mother in the years that followed. “He drew you to him,” she said. “All of my worries seemed to disappear by being near him.” </p>
<p>When the stranger finished the food and stood up to leave, she spontaneously implored him not to go. She asked him a cascade of questions about who he was and where he came from. </p>
<p>He smiled but didn’t answer her questions. </p>
<p>When she asked him where he was going, he replied cryptically, “A long, long way.” Then he took her hands in his, saying, “I will never forget your kindness.” </p>
<p>His comment brought her to tears, something that was rare in a lady who believed displays of emotion should remain private. </p>
<p>Before the stranger departed, he told my grandmother, “We shall meet again.” </p>
<p>He left as he had come, through the back door. </p>
<p>My grandmother looked for him through the windows in the back and front of the house, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. He had completely disappeared. </p>
<p>My grandmother rushed outside and spotted the mailman, who regularly delivered letters on her street, and asked whether he had seen a young man dressed in unusual clothing. </p>
<p>He told my grandmother that the only person he had seen was a young boy, presumably walking back from the elementary school. </p>
<p>Helena wondered whether Christ had sent someone to test her Christian charity. Years later, my mother offered, “Could it have been Christ himself?” </p>
<p>“Christ is too busy with more important things and people than to visit Helena Kapuscinska, a simple midwife,” she quipped dismissively. </p>
<p> But she couldn’t help but think of the Polish saying, “<i>Gość w dom, Bóg w dom</i>,” which means “A guest in the house is God in the house.” This beautiful proverb is a statement of strong Catholic values, rooted in the concept of welcoming strangers as you would Jesus Christ. </p>
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<br /><a href="https://www.ncregister.com/commentaries/grandmother-i-wish-i-met">Source link </a></p>
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The Grandmother I Wish I Had Met| National Catholic Register
