Mother's Day

1946
1994

Up a seemingly long flight of stairs, following a large wooden banister to a windowed landing, turning right, the stairs narrow and become steeper. At the end of this ascent a hallway to the left, which lead to a nursery enveloped by a home that was built before the civil war.

The home hadn’t moved, but time had changed its surroundings from farm fields, well houses, and a small water tower to asphalt streets, cement sidewalks with boulevards and a neighborhood of newly built homes. Now bordered on the north by 58^th street, this home was numbered 329. To its west was Grand Ave. To its east was Pleasant Ave. And yes, life was both grand and pleasant in this magical, wonderful, beautiful home.

In the nursery was a two or three year old redheaded curly haired boy, a crib, a rocking chair, some toys, a teddy bear, and music. My first memory, not of my mom, but of my life is of this nursery, and of the soothing, comforting, lulling sounds that came from a beautiful dark haired woman.

Byo, byo my baby byo. Byo, byo my baby byo.

There was always music in our home. I suppose really there almost wasn’t a home, because when my dad proposed to her, she told him that she was going to sing in a band before she got married. Obviously things worked out a little differently than that, but she didn’t stop singing. She opted for a little less travel, not quite as much pay, and maybe a few less people in the crowd, but she was singing and playing the piano to an audience that absolutely adored her.

Every aspect of her life had music in it. It wasn’t that it was important to her, it simply was her. Music was a form of communication, how she showed her love, how she worshipped, how she comforted not only others, but herself.

It seems to me that the most important things in my mom’s life were her children, the church, and her husband. And just let me say, as gently as I can…if you crossed one of those three things, if you got in the way of something one of her children wanted, it wouldn’t be music you’d be hearing.

She was the staunchest of allies and no foe was ever more formidable. She was right. Period. End of discussion. Her mind was made up you’re just going to be wasting your breath trying to change it.

I was pretty fortunate. I could have an FBI agent (my dad), who knew how to use a gun, covering my back or my mom. And I have to be honest I usually opted for my mom. She was tough.

They were wonderful. They were absolutely wonderful parents. They taught us about the gospel, about honor and respect, how important truth, integrity and service were. And it wasn’t just words they used. They showed us, they set the bar, they set the example. I am still struggling to match their standard.

Among the hundreds upon hundreds of experiences that would define who my mom was, her callings in the church, her clean and organized home, her love of music, her love of serving others, one stands high above all the rest, and it happened less than 24 hours ago. Actually this experience would define both of my parent’s lives. It is the simple act of their family gathering together. To both of them there was no greater joy. They loved to see all of their children, grandchildren and great grandchildren together, laughing, reminiscing with stories, serving each other, and exhibiting a love and respect for each other that maybe growing a little rare now days.

If your parents are still alive see them, talk to them. Don’t let a week go by…make the time to talk. Let them tell you what is going on in their life and you tell them what’s going on in yours. Don’t let a week go by without talking to them.

I’ve had the remarkable privilege of sitting across a kitchen table from my mom at least once a week for the past eight years, just my mom and me, talking and listening.

It’s not perfect. I’ve left her home upset, and I know I’ve upset her, but the wonderful incredible experiences I’ve had with her, far out weigh the hard ones.

Let me tell you some of the things we talked about.

We talked about shopping for groceries, we talked about what the doctor said. We talked about the woman I introduced to her just the other day, and how now I’m not dating her anymore. We talked about changing the oil in the car. She talked about what a good driver she was. I took a bit of a different stance on that subject. She would usually report on what she’d done that week. Usually there had been a couple of trips to Target and Cub. Of course there was always church, and a good 15 minutes to a half hour were spent naming people who had been so kind to her. We even talked about politics, and those were some of the times we weren’t exactly happy with each other when I left.

But the most remarkable wonderful conversations were when we’d reminisce about family, our memories of the grandkids, when we were all together.

She asked me a lot of questions about life after death, the resurrection. I remember one conversation in particular. She actually asked me about this numerous times.

What do you think dad’s doing right now? Do you think he’s watching us? Do you think he knows what’s going on?

She worried. She actually wondered if he’d take her back, if she was worthy. With all of her heart she wanted to be with her husband again, and she searched for comfort and answers in the scriptures. As best I could I reassured her. I told her what Paul preached to the Corinthians.

Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither has entered into the heart of man the things that God has prepared for them that love him.

…for though our outward man perish, yet the inward man is renewed day by day. For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal glory.

I told her, that according to the scriptures, dad was working hard preparing for the last days, welcoming people into God’s presence, and helping prepare people for their time here on earth. I wasn’t sure that he knew everything that we were doing every minute of every day. But knowing dad, and his love for her and all of us he had an influence on our daily lives. I told her, I feel him, I remember him, and I still try to make him proud of me.

We are saddened that she is gone, but relieved. She’s been released from the torments of this life and her old age. She believed with all of her heart, that she would see God again and be with her beloved husband.

My friends seize the moment, don’t wait. As James said;

For what is your life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.

Our lives disappear quickly. Be with those you love. There is no greater joy. I promise.

One other conversation that I had with her.

There was a time after my dad died that she couldn’t play the piano. It was just too hard, because it reminded her of the love of her life and how much she missed him.

Every night my dad would go to bed long before my mom’s day ended. He would brush his teeth, put on his pajamas, and they would say their prayers together. He would climb into bed and say, “Play me to sleep June, play me to sleep”. She would sit at her piano, and play until my dad was asleep, just like she had sung to that redheaded curly haired boy so many years ago.

The lullaby is a little different now.

We are signing to her, comforting, soothing as she now rests.

Byo byo my mother byo. Byo byo my mother byo.

Amen!