My brother generously added me as a co-author on his blog about six months ago. I haven't been able to work up the gumption to write anything for it since, though. I never imagined that my first post would be the eulogy that I wrote for my mother's memorial service. But here it is.
In my mom’s obituary, my brother described her as a “conspiratorial grandmother.” It’s funny that he used that word, because, in reflecting on my mom, it’s the very same word that came to my mind.
In my mom, the grandchildren in our family had a natural ally and coconspirator in the long struggle against a common enemy: parents. Cookies for lunch; waffles for dinner; staying up past bedtime; binge-watching inappropriate shows on Netflix: At Grandma’s house, all things were possible.
And it wasn’t just her grandchildren, either. My mom had a special affinity for all kids. She relished their humor—the more scatological, the better. She adored being goofy with them. And she treasured sharing her love of books and reading with them.
Many of you know that my mom was a garage sale and thrift store aficionado. She put these skills to use in tracking down anything we could possibly need, and many things we didn’t—tiaras, parasols, all manner of dress up clothes; entire wardrobes of regular clothes; art supplies; toys; and so many beautiful children’s books.
I swear I never bought a single Barbie, but somehow it seemed like we had thousands. And when the girls decided that they needed a Ken—apparently a fairly rare commodity at garage sales—grandma tried to help them create one out of one of the many superfluous Barbies we had lying around. I won’t say much about that other than that it’s my understanding that it involved the use of fire and it wasn’t very successful.
It didn’t matter, though. The girls were delighted to see grandma strike yet another blow against the tyranny of parental correctness. More importantly, they absorbed the underlying message: grandma would do anything for them.
The truth is, even as I publicly deplored these shenanigans, I was secretly delighted too. The incredible relationship between my daughters and my mom has been one of the principal joys of my life. She entered into my daughters’ feelings and daily concerns as fully as I could myself. She was their strongest advocate. It comforted me to know that she was always in their corner, even—or especially—when I was not. I knew that even if there were things they wouldn’t talk to me about, they could always talk to their grandma. It breaks my heart that they lost her now, when I feel that they need her the most.
And she was an integral part of our daily lives. We talked all the time, got together all the time. She was an indispensable part of so many family outings and road trips. After she discovered an aptitude for texting, we could count on witty one-liners and random asides throughout the day.
What I’m trying to say is that losing her has blasted a gigantic hole in our lives. We are standing in the middle of a crater, still dazed and blinded by the events of the last month, and we can’t even comprehend the edges of it. All we can do is try to fill it with love for each other.
I’m not a particularly religious person. But one religious sentiment has always resonated with me: “God has no hands but these hands.” Over the past month, I have been so humbled by my mom’s friends, neighbors, and extended family coming forward to help care for my mom and for us. In your ministry to us, I saw each of you come cloaked in the mantle of the divine. And I am so very grateful for everything you’ve done. Without you, we could not have brought my mom home to spend the last few days of her life surrounded and cared for by her family. And thanks to the stories and memories you’ve shared, I have also come to know my mom better even as I ached to hear her voice. As I try to make sense of a world without my mom, I will always remember how much she was loved by all of you. Thank you for that gift.