Sunshine and Lollipops

(Author’s Note: I wrestled for a while about whether or not to give a eulogy at my mother’s funeral. I did not want to disrespect the dead, but I also did not want to paint a false picture of sunshine and lollipops. At 1:30am the night before, I force myself to crack the laptop and start writing. This is what came out, and it seemed to be well received at the memorial service.)

Not too long ago, I walked into a hospital room and looked at my mother for the last time. My uncle was with me, and he said, “well, what do you say?” I wasn’t quite sure what to say then, and I’m not quite sure what to say now.

I’ve had a difficult time finding the words to express my feelings. I’ve had a difficult time even identifying exactly what it is I’m feeling. It’s not a secret that mom struggled with some things. Underneath all of that, though, was a woman that wanted to be loved. A child looking frantically for a playmate. A soul looking for validation.

In many ways, she was not able to settle in and find peace in this life. I know that she has found it in the next life. God has her in his arms now. She knows that she is loved. She knows that she is valid. Her soul is finally whole again, and she is not just at peace, she is joyful.

There were glimpses of that here. She always had a childlike fascination with learning things, a zeal for acquired knowledge. She passed that on to her children. She loved music. It was something that she felt deep in her bones, something that gave voice to the emotions that she could not always express. That, too, lives in her children, and in her spunky little grandchildren as well. I have seen my niece drop everything and bust a move as soon as the first bars of Uptown Funk hit the speakers. Her grandmother is watching from above, grinning from ear to ear.

This may come as a shock to some of you, but Mom wasn’t always right. I think she’s probably realizing that just now for the first time. She could remain steadfast in the face of the strongest evidence. I remember a debate on a car ride home over the artist of a particular song on the radio. I told her that without a doubt that it was Led Zeppelin that made the levee break. She insisted it was Jimi Hendrix. In that pre-Google and cell phone era, there was only one way to resolve the argument. When we pulled into the driveway, she hopped on the phone and called the radio station. Even after hearing it straight from the DJ’s mouth, she wasn’t convinced. That kind of tenacity is also alive and well in her children, and if my own daughter is any example, will live long into future generations.

She was restless and not always comfortable in her own skin, but she was in all ways one of a kind. She loved a beer, but only one, and only with pizza — for the simple fact that it helped her burp. She loved her jewelry, but every piece in the collection was at some point going to be melted down and made into something entirely different. She had a vivid imagination and an artistic flare. There was always a new way to rearrange the house, a new wallpaper to try, a new color to paint the kitchen table. She longed to be free in the purest sense of the word. I can say with certainty that she finally is. She always wanted to go on a helicopter ride. I’m thinking that the angels must have something much more exciting planned for her.

She was a literal and figurative Master Gardener. I spent countless hours of my formative years hauling dirt and pulling weeds while she knelt on her rug, tending to the flowers and plants. She grew a special kind of rose for my sister. I bet they are quite spectacular in heaven.

She loved cards and games. I still have a 70’s era Acquire game that has a card with her high score and signature written on the back. She played a mean game of Pinochle. Some of my fondest memories are of summer nights, a big mug of tea, and playing cards well past bedtime. I recently tried to wedge my way into a Pinochle game with some older ladies at a Panera. They were quite shocked that I even knew the game. My friend and I have seriously considered spending some quality time at nursing homes simply so we can relive some of that Pinochle magic.

She loved her cars. Always with the big Oldsmobiles, which were fun to drive with their raw V8 power, but not so fun to take through the cones for a driver’s test. She liked to name them. Olaf, Blue Beard, The Grey Mare. And she had the only bumper sticker I’ve ever seen that said “Up Your Kilt.” Like I said, she was an original.

But there was a sadness to her. It was difficult for her to be truly happy. She was equally capable of lashing out and simultaneously being bewildered over the repercussions. In many ways, I am reminded of the words Jesus spoke, “Forgive them, for they know not what they do.” There were some things that I think were broken through no fault of her own. She walked her whole life with that burden, with that sadness. Towards the end in the hospital, that sadness seemed to take a physical manifestation. It seized up her body and eventually her mind.

I know now that sadness and pain is gone. I know the burden has been lifted. I know that God restored her to exactly the way He made her. Her soul is singing — loudly, joyfully, righteously. And I am so happy for her. I do not mourn her. I am celebrating the restoration of her soul and her communion with the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. I look forward to the day when I can join her in God’s kingdom. I can’t wait to see the mother she truly is.