How can I
describe the significance of my mother in a few words? Why would I even try? Death seems too strong for words. The measure of her life can’t be summed up
with words. This moment, this sorrow,
this aching loss is too much for words.
Words fail me when it seems I need them the most.
But then
again, before this day, “the word became flesh and dwelt among us,” joy mingled
in sorrow, death and life thrown together, despair and redemption rolled up
into one. And so, I rely the words of
another about the Word Incarnate, our beginning and ending, first and last
words about the Alpha and the Omega:
Phil. 2:1-11.
We
translated that very passage in my second-year Greek class the day my mother
died. It’s a song about Christ—the music
lost to us—but the ancient rhythm of these lyrics still sing in my ear. And, as much as my mother loved both—Christ
and music—I find it more than serendipitous that my Greek students would read
these words to me in the light of day after one of my darkest nights. It’s because, in these words, I not only hear
of Christ, but I see my mother, one of the main reasons I am a believer. And, I see her in my family—my father, my
brothers, our wives and our children—words becoming flesh.
My mother
loved the Scriptures. One of my fondest
memories of her is when she and dad gave to me my first Bible. I even see her face now, beaming with joy as
I unwrapped the gift (I remembering being a little puzzled when I opened the
box. In light of her excitement, I thought I was going to get a special toy,
something to play with. But, it
wasn’t. It was a Bible for children, the
one with a picture on the cover of Jesus surrounded by children, a zipper around
the edges to bind up the book, and a cross dangling from the zipper). Holding it my hand, looking at her then back
at the book, I realized it was special—nothing to toy with—but I had no idea
why.
We were
waiting for mom to die. That’s a
horrible situation, when the experts say the end is near and you’re wondering
if they’re right. Dad and I were in her
hospital room, keeping vigil. At first,
we both tried to get a little rest. But,
long after midnight, dad said, “Here.
You take this chair; it’s more comfortable. I’m going to read.” So, he dragged his chair into a dim light,
sat next to mom’s bed, and began to read the Scriptures. I dozed off, every ten minutes checking on
mom—her shallow breathing getting worse—then glancing over at dad still reading
the Bible. I’ll never forget that
image. My dad finding comfort during the
dark night in the light of God’s Word . . . and I think of mom. Her love of the
Scriptures, her husband by her side reading the Bible until she died, and the
gift she once gave to her nine-year-old son.
Paul the
apostle encouraged the Philippians to empathize with people, to consider the
needs of others above their own, having what he called “the mind of
Christ.” That was true of mom, a virtue
I also see clearly in my brother, Denny.
I was in the fifth grade, attending school in Compton, California, when
a boy made a fool of himself and everyone laughed. He had dropped his lunch tray in the
cafeteria, mashed potatoes and gravy spilled all over the linoleum floor, and
as he struggled to get up, he kept falling down in the mess. I’ve always been a sucker for slapstick
comedy; and his attempts at gathering his plate, silverware, and
bottle-thick-lenses-in-black-horned-rim glasses now covered in gravy reminded
me of a bit from the Three Stooges. But,
in this case, there was only one stooge, and his comic routine was hilarious. Others took in the sight, and soon a huge
crowd gathered around the boy to enjoy the spectacle—dinner and a show. The harder he tried to stand, the more he
wallowed in the mess. Then, all of the
sudden, he realized we were all laughing at him. I’ll never forget the look of horror on his
buck-toothed, gravy-stained face when he realized he was the undesirable center
of attention. All of the sudden, I
wasn’t laughing anymore. My stomach
turned inside of me—an aching in my heart—but I didn’t understand why. When I got home from school, mom noticed my
melancholy mood and asked the question every mother greets her children with,
“Did you have a nice day at school?”
When I told her what happened, puzzling over why I felt so bad, she
offered one of many lessons about the importance of empathy. She would often say, “How would you feel if
that happened to you?”—a question that I still ask myself nearly everyday
because of my mom.
Denny and
Paula have recently given up their home and moved to a difficult neighborhood,
to live among people who face huge challenges in their lives: low income, poor health, broken families,
addiction, crises every day. It takes
great courage to have the “mind of Christ,” to not “merely look out for your
own personal interests,” as Paul wrote, “but also the interests of
others.” It’s called, “empathy”—a virtue
my mom tried to teach me at least once a week, a Christ-like character I see in
my brother and sister-in-law.
My mom was
a generous woman, especially when it came to celebrating Christmas. She loved giving Christmas gifts—dozens of
presents spilling out all over the living room.
We knew she didn’t receive much for Christmas when she was a child. So, she went overboard with us. When the grandchildren came along, it only
got worse—often we’d have to rent a trailer to tow the stash home. I should have seen it coming. For our first Christmas as husband and
wife—among many presents—mom gave to Sheri and me a special box (I’d seen that
look in her eye before and so I halfway expected a Bible). Instead, it was baby doll. When I looked up in confusion, she said, “Get
the hint?” She couldn’t wait for
grandchildren. When Andrew and Josh came
along a few years later (only a month apart), she was in heaven—so excited when
we came home for the holidays. Then Emma
and Grace came into the world, and she was overjoyed. Having raised three boys, mom always wanted a
girl—it was especially evident when Chris was a toddler. She refused to cut his hair, his long locks
falling to his shoulders. People often
mistook Chris for a little girl, oohing and awing over his beautiful hair. Mom would eventually correct them, but then
add, “he’s pretty enough to be a girl, isn’t he?” I worried sometimes that when I came home
from school, we might find Chris in a dress.
She loved her grandsons; her affection for Zach and Bryce was just as
strong. But, oh how she loved her
granddaughters, Emma, Grace, and Callie.
The night Emma was born, I called mom and said, “She’s here. Emma was born just a few hours ago.” To which mom replied incredulously, “Are you
sure it’s a girl?” I couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, mom.
Emma is a girl.” “Oh boy, I can’t
wait to buy those frilly, little dresses.”
Sure enough, under the Christmas tree, wrapped with her signature bows,
were frilly, little dresses—for Emma, Grace, and Callie. Mom loved watching them model their new
outfits, and giggled with delight when her grandsons played with their latest
super-hero action figure.
I see the
same generous spirit in my brother, Chris.
He loves giving nice things to the people he loves—just like mom. Just the other day, Chris decided dad’s old
refrigerator had to go. Of course, my
dad is a “get by” kind of guy. But,
Chris wouldn’t hear of it. When dad
objected, “I don’t need a refrigerator.”
Chris interrupted, “How old is that one, dad? Thirty years, forty years? I’m not going to argue with you about
it. We’re going right now. I’m getting you a new fridge.” That’s my brother; he’s a very generous
guy—something he learned from his mother.
I’ve
learned many things from my mom. Her
love of music, her love of Christ, her love of the Church, how she reveled in
family get-togethers, cherished a delicious meal, loved to read, and, most of
all, how she cared for us. The same
qualities I see in my sweet wife, my children, my family. It’s the word becoming flesh and dwelling
among us. The Word Incarnate I need to
see when words fail me.
For the
love of Christ, until the resurrection, all we have are words, the Spirit of
God, and each other. And, because of
Christ, that is more than enough.
