(Delivered Thursday, December 31, 2009, at the Church of the Holy Spirit in Schaumburg, Illinois)
Good morning. First and foremost, I’d like to thank everyone for being here today. And I’d also like to thank everyone for the generous outpouring of support my dad and I have received. I think I speak for both of us when I say that my dad and I couldn’t have made it through such a difficult time without it.
This is my first eulogy, so please bear with me. When I used to come to church and CCD here, I never imagined that someday I’d be giving my mom’s eulogy here.
When I sat down to write a few notes, the first thing I thought of was how whenever the subject of funerals came up in conversations with my mom, her immediate response was that she didn’t want anyone to cry at HER funeral. “No tears,” she would insist. Which was particularly ironic coming from a woman who could be reduced to tears while watching the news on TV and seeing a story about a lost dog or something–or even one of those sickenly-sweet Hallmark TV commercials.
So in an effort to honor her request, I’d like to share a few humorous memories about my mom that I think represent the kind of person she was.
Anyone who knew my mom, knew how obsessed she was about keeping a clean house. I remember that whenever we would be expecting company, she went about the house like a whirlwind, cleaning and straightening with an almost military-like precision. Then she would close the door to the downstairs bathroom–indicating that it would be off-limits until company arrived, so no one would mess it up beforehand. And God help you if you weren’t paying attention and went so far as to open that door and actually use the bathroom for the purpose in which it was intended.
As a family we didn’t take many vacations, but I do remember one trip to North Carolina to visit a friend of my dad’s and his family. In every hotel and motel we stayed at during that trip–before any of us were allowed to touch ANYTHING–my mom insisted on going about her ritual of scouring and disinfecting any surface within sight. She was the only person I can think of that packed Lysol and Pine-Sol in her suitcase. No matter how badly we had to use the bathroom after a long car ride, we had to wait for her Good Housekeeping seal of approval.
But when you really stop and think about the method behind her cleaning madness, it was because she cared so much about other people. She wanted to make sure they had the best that she could provide. In fact, her whole life was all about other people. Other people were the reason why she would spend hours in the kitchen, sweating over the meals she cooked. Other people were the reason why she worried about anyone driving in bad weather. Other people were the reason why she prayed vigilantly for anyone who was ill. And if you look at the pictures adorning the walls of her house, very few are of her. In a word, I would describe my mom as “selfless”.
One more quick story… When I was a kid, more than anything, I wanted a pet–a dog would have been ideal, but I would have even settled for a cat. The fact that I was allergic to both was of course not a concern for me. But with the messes that pets can make, I knew that it was out of the question in my house. Still…that didn’t stop me from trying. One day, when I was eleven or twelve, a friend of mine in the neighborhood stumbled upon a litter of kittens that someone had abandoned in a large grocery bag by the side of the road. He offered for me to take one, and despite the unlikelihood of me being able to keep it, I thought I would give it a shot, anyway. I mean, who could turn away a helpless homeless kitten? Well, I would soon find out who. I remember venturing into the house, cradling the kitten in my arms, bracing myself and rehearsing my sales pitch in my head. I made it to the top of the stairs where my mom was cleaning the bathroom, I think–surprise. Then she turned around, her eyes locking on the fuzzy ball of fur in my hands. I barely got a word out before she threw up her hands and started screaming for me to get that damn thing out of her house. I also remember thinking at that point: “This woman grew up on a farm?”
So, as you may have guessed, my mom wasn’t too keen on having a pet in her house. Yet, when it came time for me as an adult to find a home for my dog, Sam, when I needed to get rid of her, my mom was among the first to offer Sam a home. Her personal objections took a backseat to her concern about someone else. Again–selfless.
When my mom welcomed you into her home and into her heart, she did so with a love that I think can best be described as “fierce”. My wife and kids and I used to chuckle among ourselves about her overly-eager rough hugs and kisses–often checking ourselves for bruises upon leaving her house. But that’s who she was–never shy or restrained about sharing her feelings or opinions about anything–including you. You always knew where you stood with her–for better or worse.
Another thing I did when I sat down to write this was to try to find a quote from someone more articulate and intelligent than me–which is not too difficult–that might somehow capture the passing of my mom. And I found one from someone definitely smarter than me–and clearly more articulate: Albert Einstein. The quote is: “Our death is not an end if we can live on in our children and the younger generation. For they are us, our bodies are only wilted leaves on the tree of life.” And I think this is the perfect quote to describe my mom’s passing. For we are all her children in one way or another; whether it’s me, or her nieces and nephews, my wife, the friends I invited over, her grandkids–or even some stranger on TV who was suffering in one way or another. She even treated my dad like one of her children at times. Like the time he took it upon himself to clean the fireplace chimney–forgetting to close the glass doors on the fireplace in the process, which resulted in a fine layer of black soot over the entire family room. I’m ashamed to admit that I felt something like relief that day, knowing that it wasn’t me in trouble for a change.
But going to back to Einstein’s quote, we ARE all my mom’s children in one way or another; for she cared about all of us more than herself–in the same way that a parent puts the needs of their children above their own. Which is why, I think, she was so adamant about “no tears” at her funeral. Hopefully, she doesn’t mind if many of us are unable to grant her that request today.
Thank you.