For Mama (V10:2)

Published on 8 April 2023 at 09:08

 

The little things I do to remember my mother on the anniversary of her passing have become traditions after ten years of faithful observance. Every year on this date I share the raw text of the eulogy I read for her funeral. I keep it exactly as it was written, without edits or corrections of any sort. It is important to me that it always remains as raw and real as it felt when I wrote it a decade ago. Along with sharing my memorial, I always make a pilgrimage to the cemetery, to lay flowers on her grave, clear away any weeds or debris, and remember her smile. I never stay very long, usually only a few minutes. Usually, I have Freddie or Jordan with me, but if no one else is available, I go alone. I never miss the date. It is just one of the ways I have kept her memory alive. 

 

Following the funeral Mass ten years ago, I was taken aside by Mom’s favorite cousin, who whispered in a scolding and even abrasive tone “maybe now you will get your life together.” I was not terribly shocked by the admonishment. My world was a shambles at the time my mother died. I deserved what was said to me that day. I did my best to take it to heart. I wish I had more of a dialogue with that cousin today. I would be more than pleased with the report I could present to her. I would also be humble enough to acknowledge that it was those words from her as we left the church that day that made me really work to make the changes that have shaped my world for the last ten years. 

 

I will continue to observe this date with these little traditions, but the most important memorial I can give to my mother is the continued work to make my life the best it can be. It was all she ever wanted for any of her children.  

 

Murphy Love 

April 8. 2023 

 

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Name tags and nut cups, place mats and streamers... homemade outfits- MATCHING outfits... wax paper wrapped sandwiches.... hand tooled leather crafted belts with our names... zip lock bags with wet washcloths.... christmas covering every square inch of every room in the house... cakes elaborately decorated for every occasion... greeting cards MAILED for St. Patrick's Day, Halloween, Thanksgiving... lotto tickets as stocking stuffers.... pencils in our easter baskets... the homemade curtains, tool kits, storage and dispensary solutions in that blue on blue striped fabric in the camper... the division of mandatory responsibilities for setting camp... special,personal moments for each one of us, complete with inside jokes that only made sense to the one she'd shared that with... yeah, moments so special that you felt exclusive, and like no one else ever had that sort of bond with her, yet knowing that no one was ever left out, left behind, left hanging. Not once. Not ever. Like a lifetime of the miracle of loaves and fishes, the fount of her giving knew no end, and never had a beginning. 

Without the internet, or a formal day planner, without cell phones, text messaging, without sticky notes or scratch paper she never missed a beat... practice, rehearsal, brownies, boy scouts, campfire girls... games, picture day, pajama day at school... Mass, for each one's particular schedule always certain, a gift for every birthday party anyone was invited to, a file box with greeting cards for every conceivable occasion, from any possible giver, for absolutely any recipient, PERSONALLY. Den mother, media center volunteer, personal assistant, acting or voice coach, fashion consultant, number one fan, leader of the cheering section, party planner... 

Seamstress, tutor, chef and shopper, chauffeur, nurse, confidante, teacher, spiritual guide, disciplinarian, maid and laundress, her energy appeared boundless. She never called in sick, never got tired, never panicked, never rushed or botched a job, and never complained. You could always count on her to have a safety pin, needle and thread, sharp pencil, your forgotten baseball glove, a kleenex, piece of gum, snack, super glue or change... for a dollar. Or five. Or twenty. 

She never forgot a birthday, anniversary, game date, show time or mass scheduled to serve, lector, or sing. There were always offertory envelopes, scout dues, tickets, and supplies. Shoelaces, toothbrushes, hand soap, shampoo eternally on hand. Clean laundry, cleaning supplies for windows, the oven, the bathroom, the baseboards. …. 

For every listed function or task, count an easy dozen even twenty that have not been enumerated... For nearly half a century I have watched with my head spinning as I try to keep up the mere passive observation of the dynamo I called Mom. There is no doubt in my mind that there are witnesses on hand that can attest to the same level of commitment, diligence, and finesse marking her every move for years before I came along. And even more present that will testify to the seamlessness of her attention from one kid to the next, one class or scout troop, band or committee, from her own brood to the neighborhood kids, to the adults who came to depend on her for rides, meals, repairs, advice, planning, or other assistance, the extra additions she adopted, incorporated into her family. 

The lady could not be stopped, and there was no one but no one who could have done it better, more economically, more satisfying to the endless particulars, more timely or more lovingly. Till the very life ran out of her body she worked the miracle of being herself. For heaven's sake she nannied and chauffeured not less than two weeks ago, until the day before she could be talked into going to the hospital. 

Illness and infirmity tore at her for years, as she battled the pain of arthritis, and the decline of her mobility, the uncertainty of her respiratory challenges, blood pressure issues, and the cancer that took her as she agonized in silence, ever faithful to her number one focus...CARING. Weathering the devastation of personal loss, heartbreak and heartache, the thanklessness of we unaware wild ones in her charge, sacrificing constantly to afford anyone else whatever she was called upon to provide, Mom touched the lives of everyone around her with the grace and patience of her namesake, St. Francis, the purity of heart of the Blessed Virgin, the compassion of Christ himself, all bound together in her faith.  

The testimony of anyone who knew her presents a life worthy of sainthood. Her devotion and faith, her ever present example, her strive toward living a Christ like live in all she did are all worthy of her instant beatifcation and canonization. She will be remembered for the saint she truly was, and the church would do right to nominate her without question for such honor. Even in her heavenly home she is nearly peerless, with contemporaries of no less personage than Mother Teresa. I ask you to pray for God's mercy as she is raised up, that he sees fit to set her up with a new body, one that will not fail her, plague her, pain her, or impede her as she sets forth in eternity as unstoppable as in life. Oh, how perfectly suiting, and how lovely to imagine our Saint Rita running the show in perfect coordination for the Good Lord and all those he has gathered home.  

Saint Rita, the Soccer Mom of Heaven …..Pray for us. God will hear you. And in case he doesn't right away, he'll find a little note in his lunchbox..... 

 

 

Murphy (Philippi) Love 

April 2013 

 

 

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