Mom (and Big Daddy, Dad, and two little boys)

My mother died in 2001 at the age of 53.  She had heart surgery from which she never recovered.

I’m not sure how old “old enough” is, but I’m certain 53 isn’t.

I don’t miss her daily like I know my sister does.  Jenny lived with her much longer than I did after our parents divorced in 1982, and they endured a lot together, mostly generated by ill-selected husbands.  Adversity breeds closeness, and God knows they had plenty of it.

When I do miss Mom, it’s acute.  I’m missing her badly this afternoon.  I’m still carrying a thousand private jokes.  She has two grandsons she never knew.  And no hug is like one from your mom.  If you can still hug your mom, please appreciate it every time it happens.  I can’t adequately express how much I’d like to hug mine one more time.

My father’s father died around Christmas 1975.  I have vivid memories of Big Daddy, his house on the Elk River, and his batshit crazy wife Pat, who said she was a witch and called me Toots.  But I was only 4 when he died, so it’s not like I had great insight into the human condition.  From conversations with my dad and his siblings, I’ve built the opinion that he was much like my mother in that he was a fundamentally decent person, just with some awfully odd ways of looking at the world.

I asked my dad once over a whiskey if he had any regrets in his relationship with his dad.  He told me the only one he had was that he never felt like his dad really understood the choices he (my dad) had made—that there was more than one valid path to happiness, and that his didn’t match his father’s didn’t discount it out of hand.  (Incidentally, I don’t know very many people with as healthy a perspective on life as my dad.)

I think my mother and I had a similar disconnection.  I value many of the same things she did, but to different degrees and with different priorities.  To be sure, I brought some liabilities to the equation.  There was much that was positive about her that I may not have sufficiently appreciated when she was here.  Still, we had begun genuinely working through the disagreements we had when she died, and I remember that whenever I think of her.

Finally, I appreciate how my relationship with my mother has continued to evolve even after her passing, and I’m mindful of the one large similarity between our relationship and the one my dad had with his dad.

Mine and Lea’s boys aren’t old enough to throw us any real curves yet, but I’m pretty sure that’s a question of when, not if.  When it happens, I’m going to work hard to listen.  I want to do so without jettisoning a reasonable definition of common sense.

The hardest speech I ever gave was my mother’s eulogy.  Here it is as I wrote it, and mostly how I delivered it (it was difficult to get through it):

I was at once pleased and nervous to be blessed with the opportunity to eulogize Mom, and while I can’t promise to keep my composure throughout, I will promise to do the best I can, so please bear with me.

I had feared that I would be angry with God if He chose to take Mom after the traumatic week she had.  It seemed to me that after bringing her through so much, the least He could do would be to allow her to hang around a while.  But, I surprised myself.  I’m not angry with God.  In death, Mom has brought me closer to Jenny, to Granny, and to Tom, and I’m thankful for that.  I’m also thankful for the fact that her death has invited me to examine the things that made her special, and at the same time wonder whether I did that enough when she was here.

I remember that Jenny and I could go with Mom to the grocery store and hear her call everyone she saw by name—the produce clerk, the butcher, the janitor, the cashier.  And she didn’t just know their names—she knew who was working her way through college, or who had just had a baby, or who had just come home from the Army.  In fact, at one point Jenny wanted to be Roger for Halloween.  Roger put up lettuce at Windsor’s.  I never thought this unusual until I happened to go the grocery store with a buddy and his mother, and that same thing didn’t happen.  It’s a perfect illustration of the way she touched people.

Mom also touched people with laughter.  I had a thousand private jokes with her—jokes that no one else would understand.  We’d laugh playing Scrabble, or in a fast food line, or just sitting enjoying each other’s company.  In its own way, a private joke is a window into the soul of the person you share it with, and I’m sure everyone in this room chuckled with her in that way from time to time.

Mom was blessed with a natural ability to lead spiritually, and I’m not sure I realized just how much I counted on her as a spiritual leader until she was gone.  She lived her faith, and because she did she was often a spiritual role model for me, even at times when I don’t think she realized it.  She had said from the very beginning of all her trouble that she wasn’t afraid of dying, and the depth of her faith is comforting to us now.  I think it will be what ultimately brings us all peace when we think of Mom’s passing.

Mom understood her responsibilities, as both a citizen of the world and a subject of God’s kingdom.  She understood what it meant to give of herself—not in expectation of reciprocation or other reward, but for its own sake.  She gave simply because it was fulfilling to do so.  She understood that, trite as it sounds, a better world starts with a better individual, and that a sufficiently motivated individual can move mountains.  To me it is her legacy, and above all it is the giving nature of her spirit that I will carry with me the rest of my life.  May God bless you all, and thank you for being here today.

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