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It wasn’t until many years later,
during mission trips, school reunions, and visits around Mexico and the
U.S., that I began to uncover who she truly was. Former students would
approach me with tears in their eyes, telling stories about “Profita”
(Teacher). One shared how my mother quietly gathered funds so she could
finish school. Another told how, when he was about to graduate as a theology
student but didn’t own a white shirt, she simply gave him one. A
nine-year-old boy once received his very first pair of shoes — from my
mommy. When lonely, struggling students needed a compassionate friend, they
knew they could go to her.
Those were the kinds of stories
I’d never heard growing up, though looking back, I can see glimpses of her
giving spirit everywhere. I remember how every trip we took — no matter
where — always included a stop at thrift stores, rummage sales, and shopping
centers. She carried with her a long list of encargos (requests) from
students, staff, and friends in nearby villages: a typewriter for the
school, a trumpet for a student, a dress for a wedding, curtains, shoes,
clothing, Sabbath School felt materials. She’d spend hours searching through
racks and shelves, determined to find each one. By the end of summer, the
challenge became packing it all — into a travel trailer and our 1957 Chevy
Carryall.
Once, my brother discovered we
could stuff the little hotel soap samples into the hollow metal tube that
held up the trailer’s table — a clever trick that came in handy later.
When my parents began holding
branch Sabbath Schools in the nearby Chamula Indian villages, Mommy quickly
noticed how hard it was for the children to focus because they were so
hungry. A lunch program was initiated, going house to house among the school
staff, collecting meals for children each family agreed to sponsor. Before
long, the Sabbath School was overflowing — children, their parents, entire
families coming to learn and worship after receiving a nourishing meal.
Mommy and Daddy would travel to
the villages on Sabbaths, teaching about hygiene and handing out those tiny
soap samples from the trailer table tube. She even kept a well-worn medical
book under her bed and used it often — flipping through its pages to help
treat villagers with skin conditions, stomach aches, and eye problems.
She somehow balanced all of this
while teaching English and typing classes, overseeing cafeteria meals,
working with Pathfinders, playing piano for the choir, and being a devoted
mother to my brother, my sister, and me.
I began this memory saying that
Mommy was a quiet person. And she was. Even when she came to live with me
for the last four and a half years of her life, she remained humble and
unassuming. But by then, I knew better. I knew that behind that quiet spirit
was a lifetime of compassion and service — and countless lives touched by
her kindness.
Just two weeks ago, a friend from
Mexico said to me, “I wouldn’t be where I am today if your mom hadn’t taken
me in during my last two years of high school. She guided me, loved me,
mentored me — she was my second mother.” Through the years, many dozens of
her former students have expressed similar sentiments. That’s when I
realized: sometimes the quietest people speak the loudest through the lives
they touch. View a video about Betty's life and legacy at this link. |
My
mommy was a quiet woman — so quiet, in fact, that for a long time I wasn’t
sure I really knew her. I grew up in Chiapas, Mexico at Linda Vista Academy,
which later became Linda Vista University. As a faculty child — my parents
were among the school’s founders — I often felt like the luckiest girl
alive. Growing up in that fun Adventist boarding school environment was full
of laughter and community… but my mother’s quietness made her a bit of a
mystery to me.
