In the Leaving by Jan Richardson
In the
leaving,
in the letting go,
let there be this
to hold onto
at the last:
the enduring
of love,
the persisting of hope,
the remembering of joy.
the offering
of gratitude,
the receiving of grace,
the blessing of peace.
When I first
started to think about what I would say here today, it was just overwhelming.
How do you sum up a person in a few paragraphs or pages? It is a difficult
thing to look for the light in dark times, but there have been some small
blessings in the past week or two. As part of this process, we were encouraged
to tell stories. One story led to another, and it was just nice to talk about
Mom, and what she meant to me, and to our family.
There are a
few memories that have stuck with me always, but in getting to talk about Mom
over the past week, random stories would pop up that I hadn't thought about in
years. And while I was thinking of stories to tell, little coincidences would
pop up to provide a little wonder and mystery.
One of the
silly memories that Jim mentioned was about the bucket of rocks. Mom and Dad
would take us on hikes as kids. We of course grumbled about it most of the
time, because we were kids. But more than the aluminum frame backpacks, and the
false promise that the lake was just over the next hill, the thing that I remember
most is Mom coming back with a pocket full of rocks. It was like she was
bringing back a little talisman that carried the memory of the time and the place.
Soon there were a couple of gallon-sized, plastic ice cream tubs full of them
sitting in the garage. She could no longer match a rock to a memory, but I
don't suppose that really mattered. The collection of rocks was just a way of
marking days well spent.
Mom was not
big on speeches or hitting you over the head with spelled-out lessons. She was
more subtle, making you sort of work them out for yourself. I remember her
somehow weaving in a lesson on empathy when she was teaching me how to drive.
Consider others always, see things that they are seeing. But she mostly taught
me things by example, by living in a caring way. She had this calm presence, a
grounded way that I have tried to emulate.
I was
walking through a park an hour or two before she passed, looking at bare trees,
gathering my thoughts, and listening to a podcast. Toward the end of the
episode, Sister Helen said, "The only way I know what I really believe, is
by keeping watch over what I do."
Don’t get me
wrong, Mom was no Buddha always floating on a sea of Zen. I remember her
chewing out a theater manager when a scene was cut out of the movie The Fiddler
on the Roof, and she could write a letter of complaint with the best of them.
But she didn’t seem to seek out irritation, and even when she found it, she
didn’t hang onto it for very long.
There is one
memory that has always stuck with me. It was Christmastime several years ago, when
Mom and Dad were living in their house above Eastgate. I was over at the house,
Mom was working on something in the kitchen, and "It's A Wonderful Life"
was on in the family room. This movie always hits me right in the feels, and I
try and watch it every season. I don't remember what scene it was, or exactly
what Mom said, but the gist of it was "I don't think when I look back on
my life, that I will have had that much of an impact."
I know I
said something to the effect that impacts can seem small and hardly noticed at
the time, but that all those little moments add up. You can never know what
chain of events can be set off with the simplest of actions or moments of
kindness. And of course that is the lesson of the movie. George Bailey has no
idea what a hole there would be if he had never existed.
While this
memory was running through my head, I walked into Mom’s room at hospice. The TV
was typically tuned to a station of relaxing music with occasional quotes
popping up on the screen, but the TV was off when I walked in. When I turned it
on the first quote read, "To the world you may be just one person, but to
one person you may be the world."
I know Mom
had an impact on far more people than she could have imagined, but of course I
will always remember what she did for me specifically in all those small
moments. Everything she did to make me who I am. All the strength that she gave
me. I knew no matter how I faltered in this life, Mom would be there in my
corner, believing in me when I simply couldn't.
She will
live on in the way that I walk through this life. She will be there in every
decision I make, every time I offer a small kindness, every time I try to see
the world through someone else’s eyes.
One of the
things she taught me in that pile of rocks was that if a rock had a band of different
colored minerals encircling it, that it was considered a wish rock. Though I
have Mom's tendency to be a sentimental packrat, I have resisted collecting a
bucket full myself, but when I am hiking these days I will occasionally pick up
a rock, and I have a few wish rocks on a shelf at home.
My wish is
that we keep our hearts and minds open, and not shut off in pain. May we
continue to see those little reminders and strange coincidences that bring her
to mind. May the stories we tell and retell keep her alive in the hearts of
those she loved, and those that loved her. May those little reminders and stories
bring us joy, even when we don't feel like we are ready for it.
May she have felt love in all her days, and may that love
sustain us in all of ours.
There is a saying
that goes "Every dog owner thinks that their dog is the best. And they are
all correct."
I suppose the same goes for Moms. My Mom was the best.
