"A time to tear and a time to mend"

*note: this blog has been edited post-publication for clarity*

First of all, I would like to thank everyone who came to my mother's memorial service today. It means a lot to me.

My mom didn't want a memorial service at all. But so many people approached my stepfather in the wake of her passing that he felt obligated. He thought maybe ten people would show up.

There were a lot more than ten. There were probably more than a hundred. My mom touched a lot of lives, directly or indirectly: that was something I was going to say in the eulogy I had prepared.

I didn't want to have to talk about this, especially in the wake (ha-ha) of a day that was supposed to be all about my mother. But circumstances have made it imperative that I address some things. I was asked about that eulogy, which I put a lot of thought and effort into. I showed up late to the memorial and was not part of the receiving line; that also raised some eyebrows. Many of the attendees could be forgiven for not knowing my mother had a son, and that I was that son. The minister mentioned it once, in passing, also mentioning my wife; that felt good. Quite frankly, I was surprised: it's not as if I was mentioned in the obituary. Neither were her brothers or sister, in fact.

No, my mother's memorial service was not about me, and I really don't want to give the impression I expected or wanted it to be. In fact, I was dreading being visible to so many people, the majority of whom I have not seen in fifteen or even thirty or more years. I don't do well in crowds, especially crowds of strangers who shouldn't be strangers. I'm sure I bear more than a full share of fault for that state of affairs, just as I bear a full share of guilt for taking my mom's repeated urgings to stay away  -- some conveyed directly, some through my stepfather -- at face value.

And one more thing: I have NO wish whatsoever to appear insensitive to my stepdad, who is going through a grieving process I can't even imagine. He lost his wife of 34 years, along with their home and virtually everything they owned. Acknowledging this, in the interest of duty and familial harmony, I must swallow most of my feelings.

But not all of them.

The fact is I did prepare a eulogy to pay public tribute to the woman I called Mom. John asked to review it, which I agreed to. He may indeed have read what I wrote, but only after telling me I would not be permitted to present it. I want to make this perfectly clear: I was not asked to change anything, or omit something. I was simply told I would not be making a speech, for lack of time. If I did it, others might want to.

I was only her son. A poor son I may have been at times--that was actually something I addressed, as you'll see--but it didn't mean I loved her any less.

I offered to help with this memorial in any way I could. Repeatedly. I was told, repeatedly, that everything was taken care of. My stepdad is a man who says what he means and means what he says. After repeated offerings, can I be blamed for feeling my help was not welcome?

I was told the ballroom in which the service was to be held would not be available until 1:00 on the dot, and further that there would be no "receiving line" because John detested the custom. ("Receiving line" isn't the right phrase for something funereal, but you can perhaps understand what I'm getting at.)

I was in a bit of a fog when we arrived at quarter to one, but something seemed wrong somehow. I couldn't place it. I was too busy steeling myself against what I knew was coming to bother with unknowns, so I set it aside. It was only well after I got home that the penny dropped: The room was PACKED, and there was a long line of people waiting to greet John....somebody actually asked me why I wasn't with him. How to explain it was so clearly not my place to be?

The slideshow that John's sister Ruth prepared was beautiful. The service, considerably less so. It was long and rambling and seemed much more focused on celebrating Christmas and converting people to the faith than it was on anything about my mother. By all means, read Ecclesiastes 3: it's practically required at services like this. By all means, present prayers. But why did we have to hear most of the Gospel of Luke?

Anyway.

Here's what I meant to say today. What, pardon me, I was supposed to say today.


First off, I would like to thank each and every one of you who have come today to celebrate my mom’s life. It means so much to me to see so many people here and know that she has touched all of you, directly or indirectly. Shared pain is lessened and shared joy is increased: it’s a great comfort to find joys through the pain. 

 My mom lived several lifetimes in her 67 years. Not all of them were happy lifetimes. She had a full share of pain, to be sure, but also more than its full share of joy, of love given and received, and that’s what I’d like to talk about for a moment. 

 She was one of those people who tried to leave everyone she met better for having met her, and I think she succeeded at that to an amazing degree. Her life was about devotions: a devotion to her husband, John; an evolving and sustaining devotion to God; a devotion to helping people. She had a great affinity for the elderly and the sick; she also loved animals, sharing her life with cats, dogs, and — realizing a lifelong dream — miniature horses. 

 When I think of her, I think of the passions she instilled in me, Mom was a person who knew the power of the written and spoken word, and she transmitted that power to me from an early age. I never lacked for books, which meant I always had my choice of worlds to escape to. 

 And Mom played with words…not always intentionally. One warm and wet Christmas Eve—I would have been about five or so—she was having zero luck trying to get little Kenny to bed. Little Kenny wanted to see Santa Claus. Mom finally managed to get little Kenny tucked in, but then little Kenny heard noises on the roof. “Mommy, Mommy, what’s that noise?” “Go to sleep!”, she said. “It’s just rain, dear.” 

 Anyone who’s groaned over a pun of mine has my Mom to thank for it. 

 Mom taught me how to print. In grade one, I used to write her letters from school, all of which started the same way: 

 Dear Mommy, how are you? I hope that you are fine. I miss you. 

 She taught me cursive writing in third grade after my teacher had all but given up on it. I remember asking Mom if it was called cursive because of how many times I cursed trying to master it. And then in grade four she granted me access to an ancient Royal typewriter, and finally my fingers had a fighting chance of keeping up with my thoughts. She had me helping her with resumes and cover letters soon after. 

 And music. There was always music around my mother, even in silence. No matter how tight money got, she always ensured there was some set aside for piano lessons for me. There is a little of Mom in every note I play, even today. 

 She could be creative in her parenting. One of my earliest memories that I can date with any precision is of me trying to bargain with my mom over the right to suck my thumb. We agreed that I could do it only until I turned four years old. I did NOT agree to the hot mustard she dabbed on my thumb while I slept to make sure I held up my end of the bargain. 

 Also, when I think of my mom, I think of strength. She shared her joys freely but very much preferred to bear her pains alone. She did everything she could to shield me from those pains, right up until the day she died: I called her that very morning and asked her how she was. “I’m good”, she said, and turned the conversation to how I was. . She wasn’t “good”, by any stretch but that was Mom in a nutshell. Sometimes it made it hard to relate to her, and I will regretfully admit that I often kept my distance rather than upset her. I hope she understands. I hope she has forgiven me. 

 Dear Mom, how are you? I hope that you are fine. I miss you.