This week, my mother's remains were buried with those of my father. It was the second trip to this gravesite in three months.
Now, they are together again here, and in the Light of Christ.
This is what we believe, this faith, this hope.
These are some select memories I shared as we said goodbye to her, on breezy, late summer day at my parents' shared, cliffside plot overlooking the Spokane River:
As we went
from one little church pastorate to another, Mom seemed to attract hangers-on.
Ancient old ladies, mostly, who would be a little less lonely with her regular
visits. She’d bring some cake or cookies, and they would brew up some coffee.
And they would chat for an hour or more.
There would
be laughter, hugs and promises to come back again. Mom kept those promises, and
she often took me along -- usually to the tiny home of one kindly, nearly blind
and all-but-deaf widow of a German farmer.
It was boring,
I would argue; the woman’s house always too hot, and then there were the
smells. Let’s just say you might think she had a house-full of incontinent cats
– though she had no pets other than two parakeets, with whom she held frequent
conversations.
My own
grandmothers had long since passed, so Mom made this lady my honorary “Grandma.”
At first, it was just how Mom insisted I address her. “Grandma,” after all, had
no family of her own, and she cared for me like a grandson . . . so, for crying
out loud, I could reciprocate. And I did, with more conviction as the years
went on.
It was one of Mom’s many lessons in compassion, taught in
actions no one else might see, or if they did, understand in their depth.
...
But Mom had
a different approach to how Christians were to handle bullies. Dad always told
me to not hit back, just walk, or run away; turn the other cheek, or cheeks, as
the case may be. But in a tiny central Washington farm town, Wilbur, other kids
thought beating up the preacher’s kid was just great fun; they didn’t get this
holy, bruised example of the Gospel, at all.
During one
scramble home from school with three of these devils on my heels, I got tackled
into my own garbage can. My tormenters scattered, but Mom heard the commotion.
She cleaned me up, and then taught me how to make a fist.
Don’t ever
hit first, she said. But after that, well, a straight shot to the nose, or a
punch to the stomach usually would end things. OK, I sniffled, and practiced
making the fist. “Tighter,” she said, tucking my fingers into my palm. “And
don’t let your thumb stick out like that. It could get broken.”
Then, Mom
walked me over to where the three were hiding across the street. She told the
boys I had been ordered not to fight back, but that was done. And, she invited
them – one at a time – to fight me.
What? I gulped a stood there, looking as resolute as
possible. But there were no takers that day. There were later that week on the
school playground. And lo and behold, Mom was right – giving one of those surprised
brats a bloody nose stopped the fight, as she predicted. There were a couple
other fights, but before we left Wilbur to pastor another church, those kids
were playmates and friends.
...
Flash
forward. I was a young married man, just starting out on my journalism career.
Mom would call me and invite me to coffee. We’d just talk, laugh; she’d ask
questions, interested in what I was doing. And she’d give me advice on marriage
– and some of it made me blush, to be honest.
She always
knew when I was going through a rough patch, too. Out of the blue there would
come a phone call, and she wouldn’t hang up without praying for me. But then, I
knew she always prayed for me.
That stemmed
from one last childhood memory. I was 8, and teasing my sister. Mom told me to
stop it, and told me to put away my clothes. I didn’t want to. “OK, I’ll just
pray for you then, Bobby,” she said.
I went to
play with some toys, when, as if there was a loudspeaker inside my brain, I heard
my name in a deep, and clearly disappointed voice. I ran to Mom, stammered an
apology, and told her what had happened. She just smiled slightly, nodded, and
hugged me.
That was my
Mom. Earth was, and now Heaven is, a better place because of who God created
her to be.
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