Wednesday, February 6, 2019
Thank you for being with us today to celebrate the life of a remarkable woman, our mother Beverly. I’ve learned, there are no lessons about the “Art of Mothering.” We can only do our best and hope that we do well. My mother certainly received an A++ in this.
First and foremost, my Mom was a friend. As the beautiful Carole King sings in her song “You’ve got a friend,” “You just call out my name and you know wherever I am, I’ll come running to see you again. Winter spring summer or fall all you have to do is call and I’ll be there, yes I will, you’ve got a friend.” Mommy was my first friend and also my best friend, as she was the only person who could mend my heart simply by being herself. When any of us kids hurt, she hurt 4x as much and consequently, would do everything in her power to nourish us. Often, it was an unassuming phone call inviting us over for a meal. “Dad is going to the store and wanted to know if you would like to come over to eat. We’re thinking chicken on the grill.” Other times, she bought a small gift of something she knew would lift our spirits. One poignant time in my life, I fell into a slump after calling off my wedding. What a terrible period as I navigated an array of feelings and thoughts, constantly getting in my own way of progress, depriving myself from happiness. It was my lowest low. I know Mommy worried for me. I also knew she had my back. She showed up at my door one summer day, not with answers, but simply her presence. I can remember sitting on the church steps of where I would have been married in just a month, sobbing, questioning my decision. My Mom just sat, sat rubbing my back and in her quiet, unassuming way, saying, “I hate seeing you hurt and wish I could take it away.” But she held me up and never let me fall seeing me through it all. When dealing with matters of the heart, she asked a lot of questions and in doing so, tucked in a few pieces of advice that were meant to make me think and reflect. What a powerful method of guidance that transcended over the course of 41 years. What a gift- I hope I can be just as good at with my own children.
Over the years, the lessons learned from my mother are vast. From a very young age, we learned that the people under our roof were who mattered the most. Others will come and go, but your family will always be there for you. We were taught to love deep; there is no other way. And when faced with adversaries, Mommy said, “Kill them with kindness” and “it never hurts to say hello.” Such simple wisdom such as, “Don’t do it if you don’t want to do it” shed light when faced with difficult day to day choices. She taught Dad the value of religion on a family’s life. She also showed him how to boastfully burp. As youngsters, Mom made dinner every night and couldn’t possibly make a meal that suited everyone’s taste buds. After listening to us complain night after night, she finally said, “Don’t want it, don’t eat it.” This became her signature phrase at dinner time. Yet, to date, the most important lesson to us was that sometimes the right choice is not the easy choice. Now, that outlook takes grit. And that was something my Mommy had a lot of. That outlook inspired passion in my day to day work as an educator. So often it was easy to get caught up in red tape and bureaucracy, but with grit, you have a backbone.
My Mom was a lover of hot, hazy, summer days, coffee light with extra creamers on the side. She actually liked ironing and could make our most beat up pair of pants look like they just came back from the dry cleaners. She loved music- all kinds ranging from Reba Mcintyre to Rusted Root. She was a lover of tea at 3:00 in the afternoon. She was lily of the valley and tulips. She was a devoted daughter who loved her parents more than any of us could ever know. She was a Guiding Light and Jeopardy junkie. She threw in some Judge Judy for good measure. She was Patsy Cline and Carole King dancing in the kitchen. She was Edelweiss playing her guitar. She was a lover of snow and the peace it brought her. She was a quiet observer of deer in the backyard. She was a collector of bells, walking sticks, teapots, and lots of other trinkets that most would call junk. She was silly. She was serious. She was our biggest fan.
But out of all her loves, her most favorite were her grandchildren- her pretty little heart beat for our children. If I close my eyes, I can still hear her say, “What a little sweetheart” referring to my daughter Lilianna. She won our children’s hearts easily. She conversed with my little Louie for 20 minutes on the phone, listening to his babbling and responding. She didn’t mind and it gave this tired Mom a little break to wash dishes. A kid at heart, I recall her most recent visit to my house where she plopped herself on the kitchen floor playing blocks with my children. They made tunnels, castles and towers. Then, my daughter, commanded her to sit on the floor in her room and play dollhouse. I listened from the doorway. My Mom still had the imagination and creative mind to endlessly play.
My beautiful Mom died due to a broken heart. The bottom two chambers were weak, causing an arrhythmic heartbeat. The irony is the way she passed is that those of us in this room who knew my Mom, know that she had the biggest and most compassionate heart. It burst with love for everyone sitting in this room. I can easily look around and recall stories and musings she shared with me about each of you. She loved. . .with all her heart. She had such a pretty little heart.
I’d like to conclude with a quote from Elisabeth Kubler Ross, “The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen.”
167 Wakelee Avenue