Remembering My Mom on Her Birthday

Today is my mom’s birthday. Had she not died on Good Friday, she would have been 87.

It’s interesting, how losing a loved one makes you more aware of death in the news. Peter Mayhew, the actor best known for portraying Chewbacca in the Star Wars film series, passed away April 30. Warren Wiersbe, described by Christianity Today as “preachers’ favorite Bible Commentator,” died two days later.

As far as I know, my mom never saw a single Star Wars movie. But she listened to Wiersbe faithfully when he was part of the Back to the Bible radio broadcast in the 1980s.

In fact, whenever I hear the show’s theme song—the hymn “I Love to Tell the Story”—I’m immediately transported back to the kitchen of my childhood home, where my mom always had the radio tuned to Christian teaching programs.

I’m sure she enjoyed listening to them, but I also have a feeling they weren’t on solely for her benefit.

My mom grew up in one of the largest cities in the world but spent the entire second half of her life in a small town in Kansas. She wasn’t well known by society’s standards, but if the 19 floral arrangements that lined the front of the church were any indication, she was well loved.

Hers wasn’t the first obituary I’ve written, nor will it be the last. But trying to summarize your own mother’s life—in a way that captures who she was and fits the funeral home’s editorial format—was a poignant assignment, to say the least.

My mom’s parents emigrated from Italy to the United States before she was born. After graduating from high school in the Bronx, she worked as a dental assistant for the doctor who served as the team dentist for the New York Yankees baseball team.

She married my dad in 1958, in New York City. They met at a youth rally in 1957, shortly before Billy Graham began his lengthy crusade at Madison Square Garden. Together, they sang in the choir and served as counselors at the historic revival that went on night after night for almost 16 weeks.

A homemaker her entire married life, my mom’s long legacy of hospitality often centered on her homemade Italian spaghetti sauce, which she taught all of seven of her children to make. At church, she participated in small groups, served in the women’s ministry, encouraged new mothers with small gifts, prepared meals for families in times of need, and went out of her way to make newcomers feel welcome.

Over the years, she diligently prayed for friends and family members near and far, and she also encouraged them by sending greeting cards to mark birthdays, anniversaries and other special occasions.

Her loving influence in other people’s lives notwithstanding, I used to think my mom didn’t really know me—that she didn’t fully understand what made me tick.

Looking back, though, I see the brown bag of presents that waited for me on my chair in the dining room on my birthday every year. I remember the typed letters she sent me every day when I went away to college. I think of the rice cooker she bought me because she thought I needed it—the same machine that sat unused in my cabinet for years until one day, I got it out and have since had to replace because I used it so much.

These things tell a different story, one I didn’t fully appreciate until my own daughters became teenagers.

After my mom moved to long-term care in 2017, the brightest spot in her life was looking forward to my dad’s daily visits. I spent a lot of time with them there at the nursing home, mostly talking to my dad as my mom dozed on the loveseat next to him.

She was listening, though, and would often start laughing when one of us said something that amused her.

I cherish those moments. It was sometimes exhausting to go there almost every day, but once I was there, I never once regretted going.

Two Sundays before she died, we stopped by to visit after church. Randy, who has always been a comforting presence for my mom amid the general ruckus of our family, made her giggle when he told her how I made him eat salad for lunch that day.

“Salad!” he exclaimed. “Can you believe it?”

That was the last time I heard her sparkling laugh.

My mom was hospitable, giving and kind. But as the baby of a large family with an alcoholic father, she carried burdens that affected how she functioned and colored how she related to the people around her, including her own children.

I was sad when she died, of course—I still am. But especially in those first few days after she left us, I also experienced something that superseded the sadness—a feeling more akin to joy, or even excitement.

I thought of her in heaven, completely free from all the stressors, fears and insecurities that used to plague her—the ones no one really knew about as well as those her loved ones didn’t always understand.

I thought about what it might be like to see her there—her back tall and straight, her mind free from the fog of Alzheimer’s, her heart confident and fully restored by the love of her perfect heavenly Father.

I imagined what it might be like to stop to talk to her on those golden streets, to embrace her, to wait (patiently, this time) while she runs off to find someone else she wants to introduce me to.

What is she like now, this beautiful woman who is my mother? It’s an amazing thing to ponder, really.

She is fully who she really is. And I can’t wait to meet her again.

♥ Lois

P.S. I’m linking up this week with Purposeful Faith, #TellHisStory, Let’s Have Coffee, Faith on Fire, Faith ‘n Friends and Grace & Truth.