A Girl With Two Names

I grew up in a small town in Illinois, the same town my parents grew up in. It was 1943 when a baby girl named Sheila Monroe came into the world. She was the youngest in a house full of boys – three older brothers and a daddy who worked hard for the family. You’d think it was the picture of a perfect little family, but something wasn’t quite right. For reasons no one fully understood at the time, Sheila’s mother made a heartbreaking decision: she packed up her sons, boarded a train west, and left her husband, John, and baby girl behind.

Just like that, Sheila was motherless. And her father was a man of the times. He worked long hours and had no clue how to care for a baby girl on his own. A decision had to be made. And fast.

Not far from them lived a couple: Frank Mitchell and his partner, Pansy. Frank was steady, kind, and had a quiet strength about him. He offered to take Sheila in – to give her a home and a name. John agreed, and so Sheila went home with Frank and Pansy and became Shirley Mitchell. What seemed like a simple adoption was actually something far more complicated – something Shirley wouldn’t understand until years later.

Because Frank and Mrs. Monroe… well, they knew each other. And not just in passing. Frank wasn’t just a man doing a good deed – he was Shirley’s biological father. Taking her in wasn’t charity. It was redemption. A second chance at doing right by a daughter he never got to claim publicly.

But life rarely gives us long stretches of peace. Just a few years into their new life together, tragedy struck. Frank died in a sudden accident, leaving Shirley alone with Pansy – a woman who had never truly welcomed her into their home. With Frank gone, any softness in that house vanished. Pansy resented having to raise a child who reminded her daily of a truth she tried to ignore.

Shirley grew up in a house thick with silence and side-glances. Her childhood was cruel, she was forced to stay quiet, stay clean, and stay out of the way (and when guests came to the house, “stay in the bathroom until they leave.”) Toys were few and playmates were forbidden. By the time she was a teenager, she had had enough. She was 15, fiery, and done with pretending. She was ready to live life on her own terms. (Which included “hanging out with those Mexicans again” as her neighbors would often report to her mother. Racism was still raising its ugly head in the 1950’s.)

That’s when Freddie showed up.

Freddie was 20 and just back from serving in post-war Korea. Young, handsome, and cocky, he was everything Pansy hated – and everything Shirley was drawn to. They were dating despite Pansy’s protest until one day, out of the blue, Pansy picked up the phone and called Freddie. Her voice was flat, tired: “I just can’t take any more of this girl. Will you come get her and marry her? I’ll sign whatever consent is needed.”

And that’s exactly what he did. That day, a new family – my future family – was born.

Not long after their marriage, Pansy passed away. In a strange twist of fate, she left her little house to Shirley. And even though she was barely more than a child herself, Shirley stepped into adulthood with both feet. She went from high school to housewife so fast it made her head swim.

But peace didn’t come easy. About a year into their marriage, Shirley became pregnant. She carried a son, but lost him to miscarriage. The grief nearly broke her. But hope returned when she conceived again – this time, a baby girl. A dream she’d carried in her heart since she was little. She had dreamed of someday having her own little girl and naming her Sherri.

Shirley named her daughter Sherri Lee.

She was born premature but alive. For two brief, sacred days, Shirley held her miracle. And then – just like that – she was gone. Another devastating blow to the young couple desperately trying to build a family.

The loss was crushing. For weeks, Shirley lay in bed, weeping into her pillow, her arms aching for a child she could no longer hold. One day, she drifted into a deep sleep. And in that sleep, she heard a knock at the door. Still dreaming, she rose to answer it. Standing there was a beautiful young lady who said, “Hi, Mom! I’m Sherri. I want you to know that I’m alright. I’ll see you again someday.”

When Shirley woke, something had shifted. The sorrow didn’t vanish – but it softened, no longer devastating, and was now tempered by the joy of knowing her baby girl was alright. She was in Heaven and they would be reunited some day. And for the first time in weeks, she could breathe again. She could go on living!

Soon after, she became pregnant once more – with me. I was born healthy and full-term (actually a month past my due date!) She named me Sherri Ann, in honor of both her dream and my Aunt Annie, whose birthday I shared. I have since learned the name “Sherri” means beloved – and I’m continually reminded that there’s never been a day in my life when I wasn’t loved, even when times were hard.

That was 1962. Three years later, my little brother Tony was born. He came too early and couldn’t breathe on his own. The doctors called it Hyaline Membrane Disease, and things looked grim. the doctors didn’t think he would make it. But that night, our Dad and some faithful men from church gathered in a prayer room and cried out to God all night in intercessory prayer. By morning, Tony’s lungs had cleared, and he was breathing freely. It was nothing short of a miracle!

I share this story now, on the eve of Mother’s Day, in honor of the life-long struggles that our Mom went through just to create a new family legacy. Not gonna say it was all rosy from then on, but we all have particular struggles in life that are part of shaping who we are today. I know which ones I wish were different and that I would change in a heartbeat if given the chance to go back in time, but that’s not how this works. I am grateful for who I am and the life and family that I have, and wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Happy Mother’s Day in Heaven, Mom.

Warmly,

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