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Resources IndexIf you knew my mother, and quite a few people here in this church have met her, you knew that physically she was a big woman. More importantly you also knew then that she was a woman with a big presence as well. When she was in the room, you knew it. They don't come any more friendly than she. She was friendly, to a fault. She would speak to anyone, anywhere, anytime.
Quite a number of years ago when she and my dad were visiting, they stopped in a coffee shop in Roosevelt Field for some lunch. My mother struck up a conversation with a stranger in the next booth. Low and behold, did she not find that these people's son was a priest here on Long Island, and he knew me.
At the funeral home from the streams of people who passed through came the same consistent appreciation of my mother. When you hear the same thing over and over again, you know it is true. "She was a woman who loved life," said they. "She lived life every minute," said one. "She was always fun to be with," said others. My brother, Bob, in a most fine presentation at the funeral itself remarked that indeed she had a commitment to enjoy life.
"Ma," as we always called her, by the time she reached the cashier in the grocery store, would have made one new friend.
My mother was living on borrowed time for many years. Thirty years ago, D. Higley, our family doctor told my brother that my mother was a walking miracle. Dr. Higley died. My mother lived another 30 years to age 76.
My mother lived to play cards. If somehow all the playing cards in the world disappeared, I think my mother would have dried up and withered away. She belonged to at least three card clubs that met weekly. She knew more poker games than I have hairs on my head. And when it wasn't poker, it was pinochle.
My brother, Bob, tells a story about when he was a teenager playing cards with some of her friends. She was in the kitchen, and when she heard him complaining about the cards he has been dealt, she sprang from the kitchen and told him in no uncertain terms it does little to complain about the cards you are dealt. "What does matter," she asserted, "is what you do with the cards you are dealt." My brother wisely took it as a parable.
In my whole 56 years, I never heard my mother discuss a religious concept, or even use religious words. The word "Salvation," for instance, was not in her vocabulary. Instead, my mother lived her religion. She did not talk it. She lived it. What she did was draw a very, very large circle and take everyone in.
Case in point. When I was a teenager, our neighborhood was all white and all Christian. A middle-aged couple moved in the next block. They were Filipino. The man was a physician. His wife was a nurse. Shortly after they moved in, a neighbor appeared at our door. He said he represented the local homeowners association, and he asked my mother to sign a petition to get the new people out of the neighborhood. That had to be one of the times I experienced the full force of her anger. She blasted that man right off our property. And it took her days to cool off.
Case in point. Over the last 20 years or so, she saw white neighbor after white neighbor put up "For Sale" signs and move away. Over a long period of time our neighborhood went from all white to about 85% black. My mother always accepted the new neighbors with open arms. Everyone on that block knows my mom and dad, and looks after them. They help my dad with his lawn in the summer and with his snow in the winter. They bring gifts. They bring food. They invite my parents over for cookouts. One day after the funeral, eleven neighbors showed up at the door to express their condolences and brought a beautiful plant. My mother used to brag about how much better the new neighbors on the block were than the old ones. While I was in Detroit, I heard someone ask my dad, "How is crime on the block?" My dad remarked, "There is none." My mother never preached religion. She lived it. It was a powerful force present within her.
My mother was not afraid of death. That really amazes me and is hard for me to imagine, because I fear it. A few days before the end, she told me she did not think she was long for this world and took me into her bedroom and showed me what she wanted to wear, gave me some instructions about the funeral, showed me where some money and important papers were in the house. My insides were quivering. But she was as strong as a rock, not a tear, not a waver in her voice. She died with a broken body, but her spirit was whole, full, unbroken to the end. She was ready for what the famous preacher, Henry Ward Beecher, said of death when he wrote, "Now comes the mystery." Mystery it is indeed. With a capital "M." I believe I would be correct in saying my mother lived these words written by Joyce Cary, "I look upon life as a gift from God. I did nothing to earn it. Now that the time is coming to give it back, I have no right to complain."
Well, now why do I share all this with you. I do it not for the purpose of being morbid. I assure you that while I am sad, I am not depressed. And I do not do it to act as if my pain or my mother's death was unique. It was not. In fact, it was not even tragic. There are many people in this very congregation who experienced all the same things and even worse. I share it with you this morning because these past few weeks I have experienced the meaning of the words of the Psalmist who wrote (Ps 23:1, 4) "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff-they comfort me." I will be specific.
1. First, upon learning about how grave her condition was and how eminent was the end, after the initial shock and tears, or somehow even at the same time, I experienced this feeling within myself that I can only put this way, "Yes, this is okay. I think I can live with this. I think I am bigger than this loss." That feeling I count as a gift. I began to think of a verse from St. Francis' wonderful hymn from the tenth century that goes, "And thou, our sister, gentle death, waiting to hush our latest breath, Alleluia! Alleluia! Thou leadest home the child of God and Christ our Lord the way has trod, O praise ye! O praise ye! Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!" With a feeling and gift like that, how can I not say, "The Lord is my Shepherd"?
2. Secondly, the day after the funeral, I awoke about 7:15, couldn't lay in bed anymore, got up, and felt this feeling and thought within myself that goes like this: "It's time to live again." We all went over to my father's house where he had cooked a big breakfast for a lot of people. He announced this: "I'm beginning to feel mean again. I think I am beginning to return to normal." With a feeling and gift like that, how can I not say, "The Lord is my Shepherd"?
3. Thirdly the night of my mothers' death, just before waking I had a dream. It was a brief one and went like this. I came home to find that someone in broad daylight, no less, boldly had cut a hole out of my front window and taken everything I held of value. I was saddened, but stood there looking at my home feeling this is bad, but I can live without these valuables. Three women next door noticed me standing there, and I could tell that they observed that I was in stress. They were having a little social gathering and invited me so they could minister to my wounded spirit. Upon awaking, the dream was fresh in my mind. I shared it with Mary, who smiled and said, "I guess you don't have to be Freud to understand it." So I ask you, with a dream and gift like that, how could I not say with the Psalmist, "The Lord is my Shepherd"?
4. Fourthly, Mary and I have received from people of this church a small mountain of cards, hand shakes, hugs, phone calls, flowers, food, personal notes and gifts. Each and every expression makes the burden lighter and the grief easier to live with. One of the things that someone said to me even before we flew out to the funeral stayed with me as we went out to Detroit. One of our members, hearing what happened, on the phone summarized the loss of her father by saying, "It stinks." Boy, was she right. And how much I appreciated those two down-to-earth, empathetic words, "It stinks." Kind of puts it right where it is. Supported by such wonderful people that you find in this fellowship, how can I not say, "The Lord is my Shepherd"?
Through all of this comes the message to me, "Love life." Don't pay any attention to what anybody else says about how you live, just so long as you love life. William Shakespeare said this about one of his characters in one of his plays, "Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it." Live that that might not be said of you. Live so that when your end comes, others may say of you, "He or she loved life."
Thomas F. Healey wrote these wonderful lines:
Don't stew me with roses after I'm dead. When Death claims the light of my brow No flowers of life will cheer me: instead You may give me my roses now! Wise words. And that is the Good News for today. Amen.
Rev. R. W. Mueckenheim ("a sermon preached the week following my mother's death")
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