May 9, 2012
Linking this post with Ann and the 1000 Moms Project
to help in the funding of a Compassion International Maternity/Child Survival program in Haiti for a whole year.
My mom passed away on November 27, 2011.
Thank you, Mom,
for the simple gifts,
for laughter,
and for teaching me to see deep.
He beckons me to the table to review the order of service. “I have your mother,” he says.
And I don’t want to think of the feet I rubbed during the last weeks, the feet we slipped the pink-and-whites over, or the hand I held as she took her last breath reduced to ashes.
She would not be happy with us, likely, at all these preparations, at the busyness of this week.
But we want to give the gift of her, peel away the layers, unwrap the gift of her life.
I slip into my front-row seat on the sofa between my dad and Grace and gaze at the PowerPoint, still running, and the 11 x 14 photo, and I will myself not to cry.
The musician/cantor, the one we called only that morning, picks up her guitar and begins to sing.
I come to the garden alone…
Mom had asked Ruth, who came to the Cottage with her own guitar, to sing this.
The great-grandchildren bring their gifts to the table, tulips straight from the Netherlands. Gracee collects Lillee, and they come together, but Lillee is not happy about leaving her gift. “Flower!” she wails, and throws herself to the floor, and I laugh.
Niece Kristin reads from Ecclesiastes 3:1-8.
There is a time for everything . . . a time to weep and a time to laugh . . . a time to mourn and a time to dance.
And then Margaret, our cantor, sings a responsorial Psalm, the 27th, the one that contains my one-thing life verse.
And Mom’s family doctor, again asked only that morning, reads from Revelation 21:1-7.
He will wipe every tear from their eyes . . . there will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain . . . I am making everything new.
Father John reads from Matthew 11:27-30.
Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.
Mom watched him on TV, and he gave the gift of 5 hours round-trip travel to help us remember her. And he reads a poem about Grandma’s Hands.
And some of us share.
Dennis tells the salt-on-ice-cream story, and Abby talks about how Grandma made her laugh and some things Grandma taught her–like “No Christmas gift is ever predictable–unless it’s a coin.”
And she doesn’t know about the Hobby Lobby gold pirate coins scattered on the cloth-covered meal tables.
Grace reads what she wrote. Walks right up there and tips the microphone down to her level and talks about simple things (like drinking pop and being penpals) and simple gifts, like coins and “fragile things,” Grandma gave her (nobody knows Sissy and I have planned Simple Gifts for the closing song).
And I remember the battery shaver and gold pen Mom asked me to gather off her desk a few weeks ago for Grace because she didn’t want her to sneak a sharp blade to her legs like I did at her age, and she thought she’d love to write in gold ink.
I must remember to give those to Grace.
Sissy fights tears as she talks about hands. I don’t even think she planned to talk, but the poem hit a chord.
I tell about the Christmas I really wanted a hair dryer and how excited I was to rip off the wrapping (probably Sunday comics) to find a hair dryer box. And how disappointed I was to find black-and-orange stretch pants inside.
I eventually did find the hair dryer itself in a laundry tub in the motel. But I learned (and it became a standing family tradition) to never judge the inside of anything by the outside.
I share about how I was afraid to tell Mom I had a blog, especially since I read somewhere that one should write as if their parents were no longer alive in order to be more transparent, in order to pour the inside out, to unwrap oneself without fear. And how she encouraged me to tell, and how Mom became one of my biggest cheerleaders, even sometimes commenting anonymously.
And I think about how unsure I was about enclosing copies of my last month or so of writings in report covers and scattering them around the room during visitation. But how in my writing I think her gifts, her story, can live on.
I tell about her excitement over simple things–in seeing a space shuttle or the space station or even a jet pass overhead, in watching birds, in wondering at the “sunspots,” that I suspect her lenses created.
The joy of seeing deep in simple things.
It’s a gift.
Father John talks more about hands, and Sissy and I sing the first verse of Amazing Grace together. Margaret joins in on the second, and everyone sings the rest together.
We recite The Lord’s Prayer, and Margaret sings Simple Gifts and swings into Lord of the Dance.
And we are dismissed for a meal that includes dessert, an ice cream sundae bar–with hot fudge.
I think of One who was born in a simple place, cradled by simple hands.
His own hands healed the hurting and stretched out to conquer death.
And they wrap our stories in hope.
So we dance.
And the gift goes on.
And her story lives in us.
Because I think remembering my mom and her simple gifts will be forever part of our Advent celebrations as we remember His gift, I’m linking up with Charity and my High Calling friends in a community writing project about Advent celebrations and traditions.
And joining Laura and Laura and Ann and Jen and Michelle and Emily, all gifts in themselves.
I love every little detail in this, Sandra, especially the part about Lillee wailing and throwing herself on the floor! Each of you participated in ways that rang authentic and true. You honored your mother well. And, yes, I think it’s completely appropriate to link this with Charity’s Advent project as you anticipate the One born that man no more may die. Beautiful, Sandra. Just beautiful.
By the way, I snuck a sharp blade to my legs at that age too, and I can tell you, it wasn’t pretty! What a thoughtful, loving gesture your mom made toward Grace–made me smile!
Sandra, I am so very sorry for your loss. Yes, remembering your mother will no doubt be a permanent candle shining through your Advent celebration. The way you remembered and celebrated your mom’s life is so beautiful; I pray it gave you comfort even in the sorrow. (“In the Garden” is also one of my favorite hymns, introduced to me by my grandmother. It’s not well known anymore. A nice providence.)
May the Father of mercies comfort all your affliction. Grace and peace to you in Jesus Christ.
(We are neighbors at the Wellspring this week. I’m thankful to have stopped by this quiet post.)
This is too beautiful. Such a lovely tribute to your mother. May God bless you as you embrace all of His gifts this season, especially the hard ones.
God’s hands are all over this story, your mom’s service. You are cradled.
Sandy –
I am so amazed at all of these themes and threads that your mother wove through her life and the lives of those she loved. She intertwined herself with all of you, and now you are forever connected to each other through her. What a gift.
Thanks for linking this post up with our project. It is perfect.
Beautiful celebration of life. Love radiated from these words. Thank you.
I love the way you capture the essence of things in simple sentences that connect with my heart over and over again. This is a beautiful, wonderful tribute to your Mom – and to all of those she loved so dearly.
Oh, Sandy, I’m glad you willed yourself not to cry, because I sure am! I’m so glad you shared this, sweet friend. I was thinking just yesterday how I wished I could be there with you to squeeze your hand a time or two. And now, I have. Squeezing your hand. Hugging your neck.
Love to you.
Oh Sandy, this is just beautiful, beautiful. I just drank in every word and smiled at the end about the sundae bar, because really, shouldn’t every celebration, even a celebration of one gone, include a sundae bar? What a true gift your mom was. I am so blessed to glimpse a bit of her through this post.
I am still praying for you and your siblings and your dad every day. Love you.
What a beautiful post. A wonderful tribute and a clear picture of the impact she made on you. I hope to leave such a wonderful legacy to my own children. I am sure you were as great a blessing to her as she was to you.
I read this earlier in the day but tears prevented a written response. Now, I’m at a loss for words for the wonder of this service that was so clearly an expression of love.
Oh sweetheart – so perfect, so true. Thank you for sharing these pieces of yourself and your mother with all of us – these are gifts, every memory, every thread. So glad it all came together in such an exactly-right way. Proud of Gracee, too! That’s not an easy thing to do. And I LOVE that Lillee just wailed when she realized the flower was not coming back with her. So like our Lilly – they are just about the same age, I think. May you each be blessed with rich memories, rest, and a deepening sense of God’s presence with you as you release your mom to new life. Love to you.
Sandra, I don’t have any words for this. I’m hoping that you just know.
Sweet Sandy,
yes, the feet we rubbed… the ones that carried me, ran after me, kicked my rear when needed, and walked me to church every Sunday… and her hands that served me and blessed me. Thank you for letting me be there in spirit through your writing, to honor your mom’s life. But truly, I feel like I know much of her because of knowing you, Sandy. What a blessing that her fun loving humor and God-loving spirit live on in you. I hope you can feel my hug. <3
When people share their grief, their memories, their hearts as you have done, it moves me to tears and conjures up my own grief-sharing, my own grief, my own loss, my own joys of memories.
Thank you for begin transparent and allowing us into your heart. It is a beautiful place.
Oh Sandy, I’ve been barely holding in the tears so I could finish reading, but now I’ll just let it rain…prayers for you all as you walk through these days.
Sandy, you have described a beautiful memorial service. It is an awesome tribute to the woman your mother was. Her values, integrity and faith, will carry on in your hearts. I wish there was a magic wand or words that would heal the ache and emptiness in your heart, but there is none. Only time will place a scar over the wound. It will always be there, but the pain will not be as sharp. I know, I have lost two wonderful husbands among countless other family members, and it isn’t easy. It is nearly impossible without faith. Holding you and your family in prayer.
So beautifully painted in words for me to share in. I’ve been thinking on a few key people in my life who have passed. It’s the first Christmas that the memories are so strong. God sure did steer me to your blog home. Thank you for these words Sandra.