This is my eulogy, as delivered at mom’s Memorial Service. You can listen to me deliver it through the youtube link. After Mom passed away, our family had a meeting at the church with Pastor Thomas. When we arrived, he guided us to a large table in a meeting room down the hall.
He had a pencil and paper in his hand, and he made notes as he asked a few basic questions in preparation for the memorial service. What day and time did we have in mind? How many family members would be there? That kind of stuff. It was all easy. Then he asked an innocent-sounding question.
“What can you tell me about Jan?”
We didn’t have an answer. We sat dumbstruck, staring at each other in silence. Nobody could answer his simple question. Moment after moment passed at a table filled with people who always have something to say, but no answer came, just uncomfortable quiet.
Eventually, we stumbled through enough random facts to fill his page, but I left wondering why that was such a hard question to answer. Why couldn’t I describe my own mother?
It is easy to describe other people in my family. They are hard-charging people with long lists of accomplishments that can be used to describe them. Mom was quiet and never seemed very interested in conquering the world, or even in competing with others for a prize.
Mom did not leave trophies that filled her shelves or certificates that lined her walls. To my knowledge, there are no plaques memorializing her achievements. If you google her name, there aren’t many search results that tell you about her life. As the world measures success, she may not have accomplished very much. But that wasn’t how she measured success.
That night, I sat alone in an empty room trying to think about why she was special to me.
There are boxes upon boxes of old photographs at mom and dad’s house. I picked up one of the boxes and flipped through the stacks of pictures inside it, looking for inspiration. Mom loved to travel and there are hundreds of pictures taken in Ireland, Germany, Scotland, Australia, Newfoundland, and other places.
I never heard Mom talk about the history of those places, or how the culture is different from ours. She didn’t go there to gather information or even to make memories, she went simply to enjoy the trip. The best pictures of her don’t show her standing against a famous backdrop; they show her with her head thrown back laughing. There are a lot of those pictures.
Mom didn’t take many of the pictures, partly because she was a terrible photographer. She didn’t worry about how to capture moments, she focused on how to live in them. She did that better than anybody.
Other stacks of pictures show her Louisiana family. Mom was a diehard cajun who loved food. Some of her favorite memories were meeting at her brother, Jimmy’s house for a crawfish boil. The smell of seasonings cooking in the giant stew pot was intoxicating and she would swoon when he poured out the giant pot full of bright red crawfish, potatoes, and corn on the cob. Everyone would sit around the table peeling, eating and swapping stories. It could go for hours.
Dad was an early-to-bed, early-to-rise guy, and he would routinely remind her that it was past time for bed, but she didn’t care. She would say “I don’t want to miss the party.” She wanted to savor every moment.
There were other endless piles of pictures of Mom with her grandchildren. She loved each one of them dearly and would sit with them for hours. She would read them stories, or talk jibberish words with the toddlers. When their eyes got droopy, she would rock them to sleep and hold them as long as possible. Even as babies, they knew she was 100% focused on them. Everything else disappeared while she lived in that moment.
There aren’t any pictures of her as she spent hours on the phone with me. We lived in different cities most of the time and I usually called her several times a week. She loved to hear the little details of what I had going on. I loved talking to her because she never judged me or tried to push me in any direction. She was able to guide my life by listening and believing that God had great plans that stretched in front of me.
When I talked to her, she never seemed rushed or distracted. It was like she put everything she had into that moment, and I loved her for it.
Mom was brilliant in her ability to live in the moment. There are no trophies or certificates for that kind of thing, but she changed her corner of the world. Living in the moment is the very nature of love, and I still see her in the people she shared her life with.
Dad is a whirlwind of activity, who trained us to never sit still. But he sat with mom for hours every day for the past year and more. He fed her, helped her to get dressed, and watched over her when she could not take care of herself. He set aside his whole life to serve someone in their moment of need. That’s mom and you can see her in him.
Preston is a giant of a man who exudes macho. But this week at a crowded table during lunchtime, he quietly held his granddaughter and responded to every facial gesture she made to him. Emery knows that he is always paying attention to her. That’s mom and you can see her in him.
Kelly and I text each other at night. Not the little two words and a smiley face messages, but screens full of the things going on in our lives. I know she will answer when I am overwhelmed with life. I’m over 50 years old now, but still leap into things without thinking and when I don’t know what to do, she tells me not to worry, because she can see through eyes of faith that God has even bigger plans for me. That’s mom and you can see it in her.
Kim, for years, was uncomfortable hosting people at the house. All of the details of planning, preparing, navigating and being judged by guests was frustrating to her. I have seen her change, though. She doesn’t worry about the details anymore, she enjoys her guests. Little details may go unattended while she focuses on enjoying their company. That’s mom and you can see it in her.
I am impatient and get frustrated with people. When I lash out in criticism about someone in our lives, James and Erin gently remind me why we care about that person. They are kind. That’s mom and you can see her in them.
Mom’s legacy fills this room. Each of us is forever changed because of the time we spent with her because she lived her life by a different code.
Her code is captured best in 1 Corinthians, chapter 13.
Love is patient, love is kind. Love does not envy, is not boastful, is not arrogant, is not rude, is not self-seeking, is not irritable, and does not keep a record of wrongs.
Love never ends.
I have so many questions about why such a hard ending came to such a beautiful spirit. I have been angry, depressed, confused, and more. I miss her badly but I am comforted because I can still see her in each of you.
Thank you to everyone who came here today. You are a living mosaic of her life. As you go and love the people in your life, I know that mom will never be forgotten, because love never ends.
When Erin was six years old, she had a bicycle. It was exactly what you would imagine for a little girl. It was pink with turquoise accents and tires so white you knew they would never touch the grass.
One pretty fall day, I took her with me on a run. We removed her scrunchy ponytail holders so that her glittery helmet would fit and we both promised her mom she would drink plenty of water.
As I ran, she would pedal alongside me. Her handlebar streamers danced merrily in the wind as her constant chatter released every thought that crossed her mind. Our path wound through the park that adjoined our subdivision and we dutifully stopped at each water fountain to let her get a drink of water. I would stand on the foot pedal that was too stiff for a small girl and hold her while she drank a few sips of water. Then we would take off again, streamers dancing, white wheels turning, Erin chatting.
For ten miles.
I don’t know if most little girls can ride a bike that far or not. We certainly never trained for it. Like most of our weekends, we chased a whimsical notion that promised fun and grand adventure without thinking too far through the details.
When the modest hills of central Tennessee proved too much for the young rider, she would look at me with big round eyes that said she didn’t know if she could make it or not. I would smile at her, tell her she was doing great, and place my hand on her back, giving her whatever gentle push was necessary to get her to the crest. Now on the other side of the hill, she would take her feet off the pedals, smile and laugh while the wind blew in her face. The moment’s rest prepared her to start pedaling again.
We never spoke about the pushes, only the great distances she covered and the majestic sites we encountered in the park’s wooded areas.
I wanted her to believe that she was always safe with me nearby and to use her creativity to envision big dreams where anything is possible. My daddy job was to create an environment where fear had no place and love filled every space.
I never thought I’d have to give her away.
It is a strange expression, but it captures the emotions that flood my heart as her wedding day approaches. As her ceremony begins, I will be the one who gives away the bride.
Life has been busy for the past twenty-two years as I focused to provide the basics for our family. So much to do, so much to teach, so much joy to pack in. With all my efforts focused on preparing her to lead the next generation, I neglected to prepare myself emotionally for this day.
I know that we will always have a special connection. But, for the first time, it’s not my job to enter each dark room first. It isn’t my place to stand by her side with my hand on her back in case she gets tired. No matter what I think is best, it’s not my time to choose.
It is my time to give her away. She has chosen someone else to walk through life with. There is another brave man ready to protect her and ensure that all of her days are filled with love.
She has chosen wisely. As the father of the bride, my job has been to keep the wrong guys moving down the road and to encourage the best and most worthy. When I release her hand so that she can embrace another, I need to know he is the right one.
For two years, I’ve watched Josh as he walks alongside her. I have weighed traits like the fun-loving, impetuousness of youth against the deliberate, forward-thinking of a provider. I have observed his response during danger, looking to see if he steps between her and the threat, or if he withdraws to protect himself. I have prayed to see if he is God’s choice to lead their family.
He is the one. I will surrender her hand to him and entrust him with her life.
But it won’t be without my own tears. There is a little sadness of the closing of an era, but there is more joy at the coming of a new day.
My role will change again, and I am blessed to have Kim to help navigate our next steps together. We have gone from a young, starry-eyed couple to parents, then to empty nesters, and are now blessing a family that will continue our proud march.
My message to Josh: Love Erin well, be everything that God calls you to be, and go build your own family. If the climb gets steep, know that I am ready to walk alongside you. What I have is yours. I am giving you the best and whatever you need from the rest.
** nothing below is intended to imply guilt or defend against details where I have no knowledge **
This week, a friend of mine got into trouble. Big trouble. This is the kind of thing that involves federal agents, potential prison time, and national headlines beginning “One of the largest ever…”.
The news portrays a heartless criminal that is impossible for me to reconcile with the friend and loving family man that I know. There is an insurmountable chasm between the buddy that I embrace when we see each other and the con man described on television.
It makes me angry to listen to news anchors brag about the shrewdness of their investigative reporting while they mispronounce his name. Doesn’t this type of story merit learning someone’s name before airing a broadcast? Why is our media so quick to share sordid details, but absent when it comes to helping us meet the man behind the story?
My experiences are so different from the headlines. The conflicting images are confusing and the brokenness in this world makes me profoundly sad.
There are other examples where stories seem incompatible with the people in them. Friends that have been married for decades divorce amid accusations from both sides that are hurtful and hateful. None of it matches the loving people I am proud to have in my life.
Another good friend of mine is tormented by addiction. It is an angry demon that devours his relationships, destroys his livelihood, and threatens his life. Google shares stories and pictures that can’t be the same quiet, humble person that I shared a holiday dinner with.
It seems impossible.
When my friends or family stand accused, my first response is to deny any possibility that these things are true. As time slips by, it becomes easier to believe there is truth in the charges. After all, I am guilty of so many things that they must be also.
The world judges people from a few isolated facts that do not tell the story of a complicated life. “Innocent” and “Guilty” are the only choices offered to a world that is seldom black or white. The pressure to pick a side is intense while lives are crushed in the middle.
Sitting as judge is exhausting. The burden of weighing accusations against defenses is more than I can bear. The few facts that can be proven or disproven stand so small compared to the souls I have come to love and that my savior valued above his own life.
I do not want to be naive or turn a blind eye and enable bad things to happen. I recognize the need to be vigilant but still embrace my neighbors. In Matthew 10:16, Jesus told us to “be as shrewd as serpents and as innocent as doves.” Simple words that are hard to live by.
No one lives blamelessly. Even the apostle Paul was confused by his own actions (read here for that). It is easy to listen to Perfect Paul who writes the New Testament but would we have accepted him the same way while being rocked by news of his failures?
When accusations shock me, only God can allow me to see people the way he does. While I project my guilt onto others, He projects his perfect love onto each of us. He sees our ultimate potential whether we are fighting or dancing. That’s how I want to see people, too.
My friend may or may not be innocent of everything he is accused of, but God will have to be his judge because I will not. Instead, I choose simply to be his friend and hope that he believes I will stand by him regardless of the circumstances.
In this season, he needs me to be his friend more than ever, but I’m afraid I’ll disappoint him.
When writing a blog post, I can write, re-write and polish my words until they meet my approval. In real life, I get one shot and frequently say foolish things. I am painfully aware of my inadequacy. My actions are often inconsistent with the man I want to become.
Hopefully, he will judge me by the aspirations of my heart and not the limitations of my humanity.
That is what I will do for him.
The picture of the serpent and dove is from the Lichfield Cathedral in Lichfield, Staffordshire, England
Other stacks of pictures show her Louisiana family. Mom was a diehard cajun who loved food. Some of her favorite memories were meeting at her brother, Jimmy’s house for a crawfish boil. The smell of seasonings cooking in the giant stew pot was intoxicating and she would swoon when he poured out the giant pot full of bright red crawfish, potatoes, and corn on the cob. Everyone would sit around the table peeling, eating and swapping stories. It could go for hours.
Preston is a giant of a man who exudes macho. But this week at a crowded table during lunchtime, he quietly held his granddaughter and responded to every facial gesture she made to him. Emery knows that he is always paying attention to her. That’s mom and you can see her in him.
