February 2, 1931 – March 22, 2008
I wanted to share some thoughts with you about my mother.
The first thoughts I would like to share come from your words; from conversations that I had with many of you this past Saturday at the news of her passing.
My mother was a very happy person. She was constant and content. She did not reach for the golden ring, because she had it.
My mother was very intelligent and capable. When she set her mind to accomplish something, she achieved her objective. And she did it very well. Whether it was helping folks in need, in a professional capacity as a registered nurse, cultivating her garden, constructing a pine cone Christmas tree, making a cup of tea, or a myriad of other things, it always turned out just right.
My mother was a good friend to many. To a person, she had a way of saying “What happens to you makes a difference to me” and then extending the gift of friendship through fellowship without asking for anything in return.
For most of her life, my mother gave to life her best, kept in life the jest, and had much love and kindness to share.
My mother and father were married for 55 years. Many of us in this in this room will never know that kind of relationship. This doesn’t happen on its own: there was commitment, fun, love, and a whole lot more. I remember one visit, not so long ago, that on my arrival I spied my mother and father sitting in the front yard holding hands. There is a quote that says: “Happy marriages begin when we marry the ones we love, and they blossom when we love the ones we marry”.
Whenever we needed her, my mother has always been there for Mike and I. Across the years, she has given us the single best gift that any parent could give – she took delight in us. In all sorts of ways she let us know that she was glad we were here, and that we had value in her eyes; that our presence was a joy and not a burden to her.
In my first year as a father, my mother sent me a book titled: “Love Is A Special Way of Feeling” by Joan Anglund. I will read to you the inscription that my mother wrote:
“Bill, 27 years ago I bought this book for you and we read it together many times. It says so many things that I feel very strongly about and at the time I was trying to impart some of my sensitivity to you and your brother. I think we all know deep down the good qualities that we want to see mirrored in our children that are sensitive and perceptive enough to respond to our teaching. This was a great little book for us at the time. The book brought back many good memories and the little drawings always reminded me of you. We watched many ant hills and stars. We always will have time to listen to the birds and feel the gentle or mighty touch of the wind in our face. I love to smell the flowers and always have time.... To a very special son and father, All my love, Mother.”
I looked through my mother’s wallet this past week, and found three pictures: a picture of Gerda, a black German Shepard that we had many years ago, and 2 pictures of my son Christopher. My mother had a deep affinity for animals. There was never a time when we didn’t have many pets. And she loved and cared for her pets as much as anything.
My mother really enjoyed Christopher and being a Grandmother. She was a tremendous source of sage wisdom and advice to Gina and I, from the first sniffle, onward. And she had such fun mothering and horsing around with my son and showed much interest in Christopher up to the present.
In my walk through a valley of shadows, there have been a few revelations that have more meaning now than when I first considered them years ago. One of these was told by an Episcopal minister, John Claypool, and may be of help in times like these. Simply put: Life is a gift. All the people we love and our own life do not come as a result of our having earned or deserved them; they are gifts from a greater mystery we call God. The recognition that life is a gift is the difference in seeing the world with a sense of entitlement or a sense of gratitude. And, when faced with loss, this difference is paramount to how we navigate the labyrinth of grief and weather the crucible of sorrow. "I do not mean to say that such a perspective makes things easy, for it does not. Everywhere I turn I am surrounded by reminders of her – things we did together, things she said, things she loved. And in the prescience of those reminders, I have two alternatives, I can dwell on the fact that she has been taken away, and dissolve in remorse that all is gone forever. Or, I can focus on the wonder that she was ever given at all and resolve to be grateful that we shared life. There are only two choices here: The way of remorse does not alter the stark reality one whit and only makes matters worse. The way of gratitude does not alleviate the pain, but it somehow puts some light around the darkness and creates strength to move on."
– Bill Adams