Braving Barbed Wire Fences: Remembering My Mom on Mother's Day

Agnes Evelyn with her husband, Bob, and her daughter—whose life she shaped with quiet strength and enduring love.

Agnes Evelyn was born in 1927, a healthy, beautiful, bouncing baby girl. She grew up in a rural Canadian community where people worked hard, lived close to the land, and looked out for one another. As she got older, she was known as a bright, energetic teenager, small in stature, a little over five feet tall, but big in personality. Then, just as she should have been dreaming and making plans for the years ahead, she became seriously ill. At 18, she was taken to a local doctor’s office and misdiagnosed with polio. In those days, medical science was limited, and the treatment she received didn’t help her the way it should have.

Years later, she finally received an accurate diagnosis: syringomyelia, a rare condition in which a fluid-filled cyst (a syrinx) forms within the spinal cord. Over time, the syrinx can enlarge and lengthen, damaging the spinal cord and compressing nerve fibers that carry signals between the brain and the rest of the body. Symptoms often begin in young adulthood and may progress gradually; they include pain and stiffness in the neck, shoulders, and legs; muscle weakness and contractions; numbness or decreased sensation; and an abnormal curvature of the spine (scoliosis).

Inner strength forged through disability doesn’t slow a person down, it reveals what they’re truly capable of.

My mother survived the disorder’s first fierce onset, but it left its mark for good: a permanent curve in her spine. High on the left side of her back, there was a noticeable rounded prominence. The muscles in her left arm and hand were affected as well, and for the rest of her life, she lived with reduced mobility in both.

I share this to acknowledge what people noticed first, her physical stature. What mattered most was the compassion, kindness, and love she carried so beautifully.

If I had to choose one word to describe my mom, it would be “exemplary.” She didn’t complain about her health or linger over what her body could no longer do; she didn’t grumble about the curve in her back or the limits she carried. Instead, her attention turned outward. Her priority was our family. She was a devoted stay-at-home mom and a gifted homemaker, the kind who noticed the little things that make a house feel like a refuge. And she could cook wonderfully. I grew up on delicious, wholesome home-cooked meals, each one prepared with love and tasting, even then, like excellence served daily.

One of her greatest strengths was the way kindness seemed to come naturally to her. It didn’t matter where someone came from or what they looked like—if she saw a need and could help, she did. I remember a cold, bleak winter morning at the breakfast table when she said with gentle determination that she wanted to bake a cake and take it to a woman from our church who had just lost a family member. As a snowstorm loomed, my father urged her to wait, warning that the weather would soon turn worse. After he left for work in our only family car, she set to work in the kitchen with quiet resolve, baking a cake. Later, she called up the stairs to my bedroom, where I was playing, and told me she’d be back soon.

Despite the blustery weather, she remained determined to bless someone else, confident it was a challenge she could endure. Pulling on a heavy overcoat, wrapping a scarf around her neck and head, she stepped into the winter as if love itself were reason enough.

...she stepped into the winter as if love itself were reason enough.

Slowly and carefully, she made her way along the mile-long route. And just as she intended, the handmade gift meant to bless and comfort her grieving friend was delivered with a smile.

On her way home, the wind sharpened, and the snow thickened into stinging flurries. The icy grit cut against her face and made her eyes burn. Wanting to shorten her time in the storm, she left the safer passage of the road and cut across a vacant field. In the white blur, she came to a fence. When she tried to climb over, her legs caught on barbed wire strung along the wooden posts and suddenly she was snagged fast. She fought to pull free, but each movement only hooked her again; the more she struggled, the deeper the barbs dug, until they tore into the delicate skin on her legs. At last, she steadied herself, took a breath, and slowly, deliberately, worked each barb loose until she was free. She was bleeding, cold, and likely in shock, but she kept walking. And then I saw her trudging up the snow-covered driveway. When I opened the door, she greeted me with the same big smile and familiar hug, as if the storm had no claim on her. She slipped off her winter overcoat, and I saw then that her slacks were torn. To my dismay, there was quite a bit of blood on them. “What happened, Mom?” I asked, alarmed. “Oh, nothing, dear, I’ll be all right,” she reassured me, before heading upstairs to tend to her wounds and change.

Agnes Evelyn in her later life, still carrying the strength and poise that defined her.

My mom was love in motion, stitched together with sacrifice and quiet mercy. Her heart held more room than her body ever could. She didn’t let disability speak for her; she didn’t ask for pity or use her pain as permission to quit. She simply kept going, meeting each hard thing with steady hands and a willing spirit. And even after everything she’d endured that morning, she still stepped through our front door with that familiar brightness and pulled me into a hug. This is only one of many moments when she showed me just how extraordinary she was.

She rarely spoke about her illness, but even as a child, I understood she carried heavy health challenges. She bore them quietly, as if naming them would only give them more weight. She was my champion. She was strong and brave, and she cared for my brothers and me beyond any natural measure. For a long time, I assumed she was invincible, that she would be here forever.

I was only 14, but I remember the day I came home from school, and her beautiful smile wasn’t there to greet me. The house felt different, as if something essential had been lifted out of the air. Somewhere deep in my chest, I knew life would never be the same. Later that day, I was told that our mother had been admitted to the hospital and diagnosed with an aggressive form of lung cancer. Her sweet presence never graced our home again.

In November of 1974, at the age of 47, Agnes Evelyn went home to the arms of our Savior and Lord, Jesus Christ.

My mother’s physical disabilities were never her identity. If you looked at her, you might have assumed she was incapable of many things, but the truth was the opposite: she often did more than people who carried no such restrictions. In a way, her disabilities became a catalyst, sharpening her resolve and teaching her how to overcome what life placed in her path. She was creative, innovative, and sometimes wonderfully unconventional in the way she got things done. She learned to move through the world as though no barrier could hold her back. Her limited mobility became a kind of strength, and she drew on it repeatedly to rise over any challenges before her.

Inner strength forged through disability doesn’t slow a person down, it reveals what they’re truly capable of. I learned that lesson from my mother. She taught me that individuals with disabilities are everyday heroes. They are our parents, our siblings, our children, and they deserve to be recognized and valued for who they are, both inside and out.

Now that I’ve lived long enough to gather the kind of wisdom only years can give, I can see more clearly that everyone is gifted in different ways. And all of us face barriers that force us to adapt to life as it is, not as we hoped it would be. We learn to work around our limitations and to face obstacles however we can. Hard moments come for everyone, whether our barriers are visible or invisible, whether we are able-bodied or not. We should never define ourselves by what stands in our way, but by the capacities we possess as human beings.

My mom was love in motion, stitched together with sacrifice and quiet mercy. 

I want to live with the same steadfast spirit my mother carried. We can brave the barbed-wire fences in our own lives, clear the hurdles before us, and do what seems impossible, if we set our minds to it.

INCIGHT Team Member Grace Corrigan

ABOUT the AUTHOR

Grace Corrigan finds deep meaning in helping others discover fulfilling, gainful employment while sharing her knowledge and life experiences along the way. In 2013, she became a self-published author of praise poems with her book Chosen, Honored, Favored, & Blessed, and continues to touch others through her poetry. Having lived a rich and eventful life, she wrote her autobiography to preserve her story and the lessons within it, using storytelling as a way to connect, inspire, and leave a lasting legacy.