Versions of this are in prior posts. Also, there are no pictures this time. I can’t find the ones I want. Last, I don’t usually repeat myself. My Mom only dies once, so you’ll just have to deal with a little repitition, “On June 5th, 2016, a star was born in the sky. Now we can look up at the night sky and know the Lord has called home a faithful servant. She wasn’t the sort of star that gets reported on E! News. Ginny Webb was one who washed feet and made a difference. She was a star of a different sort for those she served.
We all have our spots. For some it is a bar, for me it is a café, and for my Mom & Dad it was a dairy bar. She was a chocolate shake and my Dad was strawberry.
My Dad caught an impressive girl in 1955 at the Young Adult Fellowship of Haddonfield Presbyterian Church. She is a Pearsall, with roots in New Jersey that go back before the American Revolution. She graduated with a degree in Social Work from the University of Delaware and was a licensed social worker for the State of New Jersey. Later in life she earned a Master’s Degree in Social Work from Rutgers.
There are many of her clients who were glad she was on their side, many who can count her as one of the team who helped them get back on their feet. When choosing sides between her superiors and the client, she chose the client, losing many of these fights but never willing to give up the good fight for those she felt needed a champion. She was a life-long Presbyterian, a devoted volunteer as part of the Women’s Circle, and a Red Hat member.
Imagine a dairy bar in 1955 on a Sunday night. Think mid-century YoGo™. There is a couple debating 1 Corinthians 13, verses 4-8 while sipping milkshakes. The girl is Ginny, my Mom, and the guy is not my Dad. She’s dressed for a date and the guy is not. He’s swarthy, curly haired, with thick, carpenter’s hands and plainly dressed in dungarees. I notice his hands again, because they have scars like they were punctured by nails. I can’t see his feet but I think I know what I’d find. The guy’s accent sounds Arab or Hebrew. The last words I hear from him are, “welcome home, Ginny.”
Ginny Picker would marry Robert Webb a few days after Christmas in 1956. She would become my Mom 3 years later. It’s been over a half-century since then. There is too much praiseworthy to tell in the time I have. Most of us never get our 15 minutes, never walk a red carpet, and never get caught answering a question with a headline worthy answer. We live, leave a story behind, and are fondly remembered. My Mom was Ginny Webb, and though Charlie Rose never called, is a star in my heart. I am privileged to have her as a Mom. I’m happy she’s free of the cage of dementia and gone home to the Lord. I’ll miss her.