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As a boy, my life revolved around books—an obsession that has followed me throughout the years. The books of my boyhood abounded with heroes and formed my concept of what being a hero was all about. My heroes walked tall through the pages of my books, courageously facing a variety of dangers. They never tired and could handle anything. At the end of the story, they walked off to new adventures—the rescue of a damsel in distress or a village besieged by robbers, or the pursuit of a villain who had robbed a widow of all her livelihood. The adventures varied, the crime differed from plot to plot, the villains ranged from gray to black on the scale of villainy, but the hero was always clever, witty, strong and muscle-packed. Of course, there was always a matching heroine. Her reward at the end of the adventure was usually an embrace, a kiss, and a goodbye as the hero went on to battle other villains and embrace other heroines.
My father was nothing like those men who captivated my heart and my allegiance. Nor was my mother anything like those willowy, gorgeous combat trained heroines at whose feet I could humbly have spent my adolescence.
From a boy's perspective, my father did not fit the cast of a hero. The limits of his heroic deeds involved walking at the edge of tall buildings, not in pursuit of goons and villains but of dislodged roof tiles. That was his job. He was a roof maker by trade—a skilled one, admittedly—but just a roof maker. He was a man clever with his hands, immensely practical and hard-working. But to a young boy he was certainly not a hero.
My mother was a plain woman. Her most attractive feature was her raven black hair, the envy of many other women. She was not educated but had learned enough to be able to read to us. She read us stories from the Bible about Abraham the gentleman, Jacob the deceiver, the valiant David, Solomon the king (who had so much gold that we dreamt about it at night), the beautiful Queen Esther, and Ruth, the faithful one.
My parents were the most ordinary people and compared poorly to the heroes of my childhood dreams. Yet now, looking at life from the other side of 70 and having a “family” of poor children who look to me for their livelihood, my eyes have been opened to the extraordinariness of those two people who were my parents.
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My parents raised eight children through a time of war, hunger and disaster—a time when death was as common as the measles. They kept going when a bomb destroyed our home and all that was in it. They bore the death of their eldest son, a casualty of the war in Russia. Their concern was always their children. They fed us, clothed us, and helped us receive our education. They set us on our feet and enabled us to live much better than they ever did.
My mother's day often started at 5 a.m. and ended at midnight. Her days were taken up with stitching, darning, washing, and preparing meals—if there was anything to prepare. Our clothes were patched, but they were always clean. And she did it all without the help of a washing machine, a dishwasher, or a gas stove.
Mother and Father would always eat after we children had eaten, and they would always go to sleep after we were in bed. They always put themselves last, which is why they wore the same clothes for so many years. Later, as we grew older and more money came in, things improved, but my parents’ habit of putting their children first never changed.
My father sustained a head injury during World War II which partially incapacitated him. After the war, he volunteered to search the German woods for unexploded mines and bombs and was wounded again. This time his right arm and hand were damaged and eventually became useless. In spite of his injuries, he continued to climb onto roofs to work. When his body finally would not permit this anymore, he became a sweeper in a factory in order to look after his family.
Sadly, what my parents did for me when I was 15, I understood when I was 50. In my youth, I was deaf to their admonitions and blind to their sacrifice. The make-believe heroes of books and movies blinded me to the true heroes in my life—my parents.
When any of the boys or girls under our care tell me they are ashamed that their parents make a living rolling bidis (cigarettes), working as a coolie or as a rickshawwala (sweeper), I tell them: “Don't be! Worship the ground they walk on. They are heroes, real heroes, who are willingly giving their lives so that you may live.”
Frank Juelich is a PAOC missionary who has lived in India since February 1972. He helped a team of tribal pastors, Mawchis, in Western Maharashtra with the translation of the New Testament into their language. In the process he also established three homes for 1,000 destitute kids. Frank resides in Nagpur, India.
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