A Tribute to Mom and Her Care for Us

On Thursday, November 16th at 6:15am we gathered to say a final goodbye to my mom. We gathered in the darkness and the most glorious sunrise rose over us and lit up the lake in brilliant color.

For those of you who love our family, but were unable to travel to be with us, I wanted to share with you a snippet of that beautiful service, crafted so carefully by my mom and I together, and led by Pastors Amy and Adam Rohler who cared for mom with such love and respect in her final days on earth.

This is the program with order of service and my eulogy to follow:

” What a horrible thing it is to be gathered here today. - I like to call things what they are, if you know me, you know this is true - and it is a truly horrible thing to be here today.

And what a holy privilege and powerful thing it is to be here today too.

It is both.

We bear witness together, this morning - the lot of us - to both.

It’s unfair what has happened - - we’ll start there -- it is unfair that this rare cancer, this beast of osteosarcoma, swooped in so fast and so aggressively and so impatiently, growing so fast, taking so much, leaving my mom with so few options, giving her so little time, taking her from us so young.

It is unfair. I know you feel the same.

It is a horrible, traumatic, downright dirty thing that has happened - a death we wouldn’t wish upon our worst enemies. It feels unnatural in every one of my senses and has the pit of my stomach down on the floor as I try to hold back anger and tears this morning.

It is horror what has happened. Our faces are sullied with grief. Our hearts are heavy.

It is okay to name all of this, family and friends. This - this morning - this little patch of land up on the hill overlooking the lake - a parking lot of all places - this won’t be one of those places where we cover up the ugly and use false positivity and platitudes to mask things. We will call things like they are.

It is a horror that we are here. It’s okay for you to feel that. I feel that. You can name it. You can express it. You don’t have to hold back. You have permission to bring all of your dread here.

We stand in the darkness before the light has risen.

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You know - my mom surprised me. When I asked her about what kind of funeral she wanted several weeks ago - she rattled off an abstract answer way faster than I would have imagined.

She immediately, without hesitation, responded: I want it to be at sunrise. I want the sun to rise over the service.

It was her dying wish, from a gut-like, reflex place within her, that we be here, at this overlook, on this cold, fall morning. She wanted us gathered here.

I’ll be honest, it sort of made sense to me when she said it: after all, if you have ever vacationed with my mom - and I know that there’s lots of you here who have, she was always up at dawn to watch the sunrise, her favorite part of Easter was always the sunrise service, and if you look through her phone, like I did this past week, there are hundreds of photos of sunrises here on Chautauqua Lake and in places that she traveled.

Mom loved sunrises, so okay: a sunrise service. But as I started to think about the logistics, it seemed a little impractical and informal for a funeral. So, unlike mom, I did hesitate. I watched the weather, and I hesitated.

And it wasn’t until I began to get ready for this eulogy that I understood mom’s full intention with the sunrise. It wasn’t just for the beauty of a moment that she loved in each day. It was for more.

Mom wanted us here, gathered on this cold morning, because mom wanted us to sit together in the tension — the tension of the darkness and the night - as a community of friends, family, coworkers, loved ones…

And then she wanted the sun to rise over us, all at once, and all together, and give us promise and hope.

You see, her choice of where we would be this morning was a final gift to us.

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You are welcome here today, friends and family, on this dark and dreary morning, with your heavy and burdened hearts.

Here in the darkness, your grief bears witness to love as a sacred void.

Here in the darkness, your grief is solidarity with our family’s broken hearts.

Here in the darkness, we testify together to a life that filled us all with love and meaning and joy and generosity and guidance.

Here it is okay to ask: what will we possibly do without her?

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But the light is coming.

Sure and steady, the sun is going to rise, over us together.

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And when it rises, instead of the horror, these things will remain:

Precious memories and photos and laughter

Stories of times when we were together - times when my mom made us belly-laugh, times when we laughed at her, times when she gathered us — for parties, for fundraisers, for games, for holidays - she was the ultimate gatherer, times when she picked us up and wiped the tears from our eyes, Andy, times of vacation, times of service and sacrifice, times of love.

We’ll think of her bright, bubbly, a little gaudy, personality - or as my brother and I like to say, “mom’s extra” - we’ll think of that funny little chuckle and how quickly tears used to stream down her face - both when she was happy and when she was sad.

I’ll think of her at every game, at every event that she cheered me on at, at every nonprofit gala I hosted or business I launched, I’ll remember that bright big glow of pride: I’ll think of her and my grandma showing up and crying every single time I preached, no matter what the subject was — my friends used to joke that they were “my own personal entourage.”

We’ll think of her strength - the way that she survived my dad’s death with such grace and poise, becoming the only rock to my brother and I. We’ll think of the great lengths she went to to rescue my brother after my dad’s death. We’ll think of the fortress she offered me when I lost my child - traveling back and forth from Honduras to the U.S. and letting me weep on her couch for weeks as I tried to swallow what had happened.

We’ll think of how she rebuilt her life: not as she had once imagined, but widowed, in a new home, that she made all her own - filled with flamingos and beach memorabilia, and a big beautiful outdoor pool and deck – I think many of us have fond memories out there.

We’ll think of her as a child and teen. I don’t have those memories, except for photos and stories, but oh… the stories - that my grandma tells, that my uncles tell. Only sister to three brothers — the tales are great and long and hilarious. She was chuckling at them just hours before she passed.

Good times - the West Fest, parties at their Panama Camp, the Sloan Slosh.

Mom loved her people. You were all her treasure. She let people into every crack and crevice of her life and celebrated them there: and her network was so wide. You are witness to that: family, high school and college friends, waitressing friends, coworkers at SKF, her goddess group, her Bemus squad, church friends, Honduras mission friends, War Vets friends, Community Helping Hands friends, Andy and I’s friends… wherever my mom went, she always sowed and reaped in love. What a legacy.

I can’t wait to hear your stories and memories of mom — please do come to the breakfast following this service, so that we can savor all of them.

She treasured her grandchildren and they treasured her: they always lit up around each other, and I’ll never forget the light in her eyes when they choreographed and performed their Flamingo Swim Dance for her this summer.

And mom’s generosity: extraordinary, and so wide. We know that she inherited that from my grandma, who taught her the 4 V’s since she was little: Live, Love, Give, and Forgive.

Her Buffalo Bills, Her Flamingos, Her Vacations. Is there anything my mom did in moderation?

She was all in on life, every little part of it.

Even in the end. Mom knew she was terminal since July. It never stopped her. It might have slowed her down, but it sure as heck didn’t stop her. She had parties, she gathered her goddesses, she took photoshoots, she planned vacations, she shopped extravagantly - she gave extravagantly, she ate so much ice cream, she poured her Bud Light Platinum, even if it was only sips she could take, she called her people close - around the clock.

Mom lived well.

If we look at the broad intersections of her life, and if we look at the detailed bits of her life, in both places - in those broad strokes and in those tiny moments - we see: joy, love, resiliency, and faithfulness.

I’ll never forget the way that I kept finding her on our last trip to Myrtle Beach: eyes closed, breathing deep, taking in the sand, the salt, the sounds of the crashing waves and my very loud children, feeling the touch of sun on her shoulders, as if she was somehow preserving all of it.

Tragedy was no stranger to my mom. She knew it like an old friend.

But still, she lived, audaciously, boldly, wildly even… until she drew her last breath.

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And so, she gathered us here: friends, family, coworkers, loved ones.

She chose this setting, this place — because she knew that old friend, tragedy, would rear it’s ugly head and what she had learned so hard and so well over the years was that it takes the courage to see both the dark and the light to make it through.

And that this is done best in community. It takes a village.

So, hello, village: We stand on the precipice of the light together. And we’re going to need each other in the days to come.

The very best way we can honor my mom now, is to love each other well and take in a big drink of life - in all of its complexity and all of its feelings - all of its different sounds, and tastes, and textures, and smells. Take it all in together.

The sun is rising this morning, and I know what mom would have wanted whispered to all of us was: You’re going to be okay.

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Please close your eyes and listen to this song: one final gift from my mom to you.

We love you all, desperately. “

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Song: “Be Okay” by Lauren Daigle