Missing my Mom on her 61st Birthday

This past month, I have embarked on a herculean task: organizing cards, letters, and mementos from the last ten years to put in my journals.

Yes, ten years of memories were stored in a UHaul moving box in our garage, and I was determined to get them sorted into years and then put them in chronological order in my journals.

It has taken hours and hours and hours, and I'm still not done, but it has been pretty amazing to go back in time and read all of those letters.  It has made me both grateful and melancholy, happy and a little sad--to relive the memories, notice how I have changed (and not changed), and remember the good people who have made me me.

Within this treasure trove of memories, I found a real gem: a letter that my best friend from college wrote to me about my mother.  She wrote it on my mom's birthday, a few years after my mom had passed away.  We always "Sallybrate" on June 14th and share memories of my mom, and that year, my bosom friend Becky contributed also.

Today is my mom's 61st birthday, and as part of my own Sallybration, I want to share part of Becky's letter here.  So few people in my life now ever met my mother (Ryan never even met her!), so to have the memories of someone who knew her, who saw her interacting with me, who felt her goodness in person...it is priceless.

This is what she wrote:

Rach,

I wanted to write you and tell you the influence your mom has had on me in my life.  I was excited to hear about your Sallybration, and now I am going to add my part of it.

I only met your mom three or four times, but through those few times, and through you, I know her.  I have learned so much from her.  One thing I have learned from her is to have fun despite.  I remember in Moab, when she came to watch us for our half marathon, she had just had surgery, but she was just as happy and silly as ever.  She made everyone around her happy and silly as well.  Things were rough, but she still made the most of life.  It makes me think of Elder Wirthlin's talk at Conference, "An Abundant Life."  Your mom led an abundant life.  I want to be more like that.

I have also learned more about serving. When I was in the Missionary Training Center, I played Secret Cupid for the girls in my training group.  They probably thought I was weird, but I did it anyway because little surprises in life are fun and I had fun doing it.  I love that tradition that your mom started.

I remember you telling me that in the final weeks of her life, your mom asked you to take her to a friend's house who needed her help, even though she was so so sick.  I want to be more like that.  That was how Christ was--He didn't care what the circumstances were, he just served.  He served everyone.  I want to see and take the opportunities like that--like your mom did.

I remember her calling you almost every day that first year of college, to talk about whatever, especially Laura's surprise 16th birthday party that she was planning.  I remember her being so excited about everything you did, everything you accomplished.  She would send you cards and packages just to tell you how proud she was of you and how much she loved you.  When your parents came to Provo, they took all of us to dinner because she wanted to be a part of your life as much as she could and that meant knowing your friends at college.  I want to be a mom like her--so supportive and excited about my kids, so involved in and a part of my kids' lives.

Rach, I am thankful to have known her.  I am thankful for the person she is and for the person you are because of her.  That is one of the biggest things.  I can tell how she was because of how you are.

God is taking care of us, Rach.  Don't you love that?  So many people in the world don't know that, but I know He is.  I look back five years, and I see it.  I see it in our friendship.  I see it in your mom's life.

I love you, Sis.
Becky 

I am so grateful that Becky took the time to write down those memories, so I could discover them again ten years later, and remember in clearer detail what my mom was like.

If you are ever wondering how to support someone who has lost a loved one, consider writing them a letter of memories.  Moments you remember of that person, lessons you learned from them--and even more than that, memories you have of your friend or loved one interacting with the person that they lost.  That is my favorite part of Becky's letter--the memories of what my relationship with my mom was like.

I can't tell you how much I miss her.  Hearing her voice and her laughter on the other end of the phone, getting a letter in the mail with ideas for my upcoming lesson in church, seeing her interacting with my friends and knowing that they were being influenced by her goodness.

She was remarkable.  Sometimes I wonder if I have romanticized just how good she was--if time has made me remember her through rose colored glasses.  But then I read letters like this, and I am reminded that others saw it too.  Others saw her light.

I will be remembering her today and always--and thanking God that I was blessed to be her daughter.

Bliss Complete: For My Mom on her 60th Birthday

Today is my mom's 60th birthday.  We celebrated by reading the "Grandma Sally Adventure Series" that I wrote shortly after she passed away, and then writing messages on balloons and sending them soaring up to her in Heaven.  I love that Noah is getting to the age where I can tell him all about her and he understands and remembers.

Noah said his balloon says, "I love you.  From heart to heart to heart.  I wish you were back.  I hope to see you soon.  When I go up to Heavenly Father, I'll see you." I told him that I hoped it wasn't too soon that he goes up to Heavenly Father to see Grandma Sally, and he agreed.  He said he will live a long and happy life first.

Each year we do something different for our "Sallybration" on my mom's birthday, and tonight's was simple and sweet. I loved it.

As for her 60th birthday blog tribute, instead of sharing 60 memories of her, I thought I would share a personal narrative that I wrote in the months just after her death.  (It's long!  Be forewarned!)  I wrote this narrative during my sophomore year of college after I saw a flier for a campus-wide writing contest.  I decided to take that opportunity to write about my mother--to hole myself away in my room and spend hours remembering her.  This was my way of grieving, of making sure that I never, ever forgot, of honoring her through my words.

Though it's not the most polished thing I've ever written, it remains my favorite--because I have never given so much of my heart to one piece of writing.

This narrative is titled "Bliss Complete," and tonight as my little family let those balloons go up up up into the perfect blue sky, I felt a little piece of the bliss that comes only from loving people so much that your heart swells and fills and somehow never breaks, even when they are gone--because you had them.  And that in and of itself is a miracle.

I understand now how my mother loved me.  And just as I would never leave my children behind, I know she hasn't left me either.

Happy 60th Birthday, Mama.  Sending love (and balloons!) from earth to heaven.
______________

Bliss Complete

Dad kept the sprinklers running all week to try to keep the roses alive.  Scattered across the front lawn, the flowers welcomed mourners to our home and reminded them of her vibrant gift for living.  But the reds, pinks, and yellows faded in the record-breaking heat of that week in July.  And the roses died.

I stepped out the front door, a stack of journals and my laptop computer in my arms.  I wanted to stay.  I wanted to stay where I could hear so many conversations going on at once—funeral preparations, long distance phone calls, and friends bringing condolences.  I wanted to stay where the chaos around me matched the chaos inside my brain.  But I had to get out.  It was the only way.

My foot crunched a dried-up rose as I walked towards the neighbors’ house, watching waves of heat rise from the asphalt of the cul-de-sac.  The Cowans had called and offered their home as soon as they’d heard the news, in case we needed some solitude or a place for relatives to stay.  At least they have an air conditioner that works, I reassured myself as I punched in their garage code.  Our air conditioner had died Monday morning.  Everything died on us that week.

The door leading into the Cowan’s empty house squeaked open and then slammed behind me.  I stood alone in the silence, and I didn’t move a muscle.  So this is it.  This is where I’ll write the talk that I’m going to give tomorrow at Mama’s funeral.

Today was the day.  I had no other choice, not if I really wanted to go through with giving this speech.  And I was going to go through with it—I had told her that I would.  I told her Monday morning, my arms wrapped around her swollen belly as I lay beside her in her bed.

“Mama?”

“Hmm?”

I had taken a deep breath, wondering how I could speak the words.  “I know what I’m going to talk about at your funeral.”  Somehow I was always saying the words that no one else had the courage to say in those last few weeks.

“What are you going to talk about, Rach?”

“I thought of it yesterday while Sary, Laura, and I were singing for the congregation at church.  I was looking at you in the audience, and all of the sudden, I understood what the words of ‘Love At Home’ mean—what they really mean.”  I swallowed.  “‘Making life a bliss complete, when there’s love at home.’  That’s it.  That’s what I’m going to talk about.”

She waited for me to continue.

“I mean, because the song doesn’t say ‘making life a bliss long;’ it says ‘making life a bliss complete.’  And that’s you, Mama.  You’ve made my life so blissful because of the love you’ve brought into our home.  And even though your life hasn’t been a bliss long, it’s definitely been a bliss complete.”

She was crying. 

I hugged her a little tighter. “I’m going to tell everyone about your bedtime stories and our late-night talks in my room, the stars you decorated our bedroom doors with before our plays, and the Harry Potter party you threw me--and how we talked on the phone almost every day last year when I was at college.”

She found my hand and squeezed it.  “Rachel, all I ever wanted was love in our home.  And yesterday, looking at you three girls up there singing, I realized that I got it.  I got everything I ever wanted.”

A few hours later I called 9-1-1 because my mom had lost consciousness.  I lay beside her on the floor and sang “Love At Home” while my dad and sisters rushed home from work. 

Just as she had wanted, the five of us were together when she slipped away.  We were circled around her bed in the emergency room, hands tightly clasped.  Then God took her from our family circle.  And she left us alone.

Yes, I would go through with this talk.

Settled in an arm chair in the Cowan’s living room, I stared at the blank computer screen in front of me.  Blank, like my stunned heart. I started typing.

My sisters and I had the opportunity to sing an arrangement of “Love At Home,” one of our favorite hymns, to our church congregation this past Sunday.  My mom was so grateful that she was well enough to be there to hear her girls sing.

Grateful is an understatement.  Her tears didn’t stop for the rest of the meeting.

As the three of us sang the familiar words, one of the lines of the hymn that I had never really noticed before suddenly took on new meaning to me: “Making life a bliss complete, when there’s love at home.”  Although I never expected that she would pass away the next day—

Another understatement.

—I knew that I didn’t have much time left with my mom.  But in that moment, as my eyes settled on her face among all the faces in the congregation, I realized that my life has truly been a“bliss complete” because of the love that my mother brought to our home each and every day of her life.

I stopped typing.  I stared into the air around me, the enormity of the task ahead suddenly taking hold of my lungs.  I couldn’t breathe.  How could I possibly capture this woman in words?  Her life, her goodness, her love.  I prayed for the words.  I prayed that I would be able to breathe again.

The cursor at the end of my thought blinked at me for several minutes before I could continue.  And then I did the only thing I could think to do—start with what I already had, with what I had told my mom I would talk about that morning in her bed:

When I think of love at home—

My fingers shook as I typed.

—I think of bedtime stories, which were so important to us as little girls.  Mom even recorded them on tapes so that we could listen to them while she was in the hospital for two and a half months during her bone marrow transplant.

“Mommy, why do you have to go away?”

My first memory. Snuggled up to my mom’s warm side, legs under her gray bedspread, my sisters and I watched as she struggled with Daddy’s tape recorder from work.

“I have to go away because I’m sick, Rach.”

“That’s why you don’t have hair,” Sarah piped in from her other side.

“Yes, sweetheart.” She pulled us in closer. “But you’ll only have to listen to bedtime stories on tape for a little while. Mommy’s coming home. And when I come home, I will be better, and I will read you all the books you want.”

“Really?!” Our eyes were wide.

“Really.”

The cursor blinked at me again as I remembered that night thirteen years earlier. Mommy had come home. She never stopped fighting for the chance to raise her girls.

I leaned my head back and stared at the white ceiling fan above me, picturing her throughout all the stages of my life: As I had first known her, a mother of three very young children, full of energy and health as she helped us with crafts on the back porch picnic table. Then as a mother of three elementary schoolers, her flowered baseball cap barely covering her bald head at the school-sponsored Mothers’ Day Tea. As I had known her later in life, a mother of three teenaged girls, kneeling in a circle with her family and praying for the Holy Spirit to dwell in our home. Finally as a mother of three young women, frail and tired in those last few weeks of her life, laughing with my aunts as they quilted baby blankets for the grandchildren she would never know. 

My eyes focused on the ceiling fan above me. Spinning…spinning…spinning…like the pictures in my head. I couldn’t differentiate between when she had been sick and when she had not. Throughout the years, the cancer had come and gone, come and gone. But it all mixed together because, through it all, she had remained the same.

I looked down from the fan and began typing again. My heart knew the next part.

When I think of love at home, I think of the creak of my mom’s bedroom door. My mom could never sleep until she knew that each of her girls was home safe and happy, and as a teenager, I looked forward to the sound of the creak of her door when she heard me come in for the night. She would come into my room and ask how my evening had been, and we would often end up sitting on my bed and talking for hours.

“Mama, he finally kissed me!”

“Mama, my friends were drunk again at the football game—what is happening to them?”

“Mama, what if I don’t get a part in the school play?”

And in the last few months:

“Mama, how can I make the most out of my life?”

“Mama, it’s okay if you aren’t excited to die. It’s because your family is Heaven enough for you—and I think God wants it to be that way.”

“Mama, I’ve decided I’m going to write a book about you. Then my kids will know what their grandma was like.”

Lines from those late night conversations echoed in my mind. Her laughter, her wisdom, her advice. It was all etched so deeply within me that I knew I would never forget. Some things were fading already: the memory of her voice singing “Edelweiss” at bedtime; the sound of the oxygen chord dragging behind her on the wood floor; the smell on her bath robe. So many things were slipping away. But those late night conversations—never. Never.

Truly, my fondest memory of my mom is our long talks, so often very late at night. 

I liked to joke with my mom that the creak of her door was not always a welcome sound. When I was late for curfew or trying to sneak out for some toilet papering with my middle school friends, I’d cringe and try to run and hide when I heard that creak! But that was the type of mother my mom was: always concerned for, aware of, and much much smarter than her children.

I took in a deep breath and held it for a moment with my eyes closed. How could I capture all of this? How could I even try? I opened my eyes with a sigh, letting them wander anywhere but to my computer screen.

I picked up a journal from the stack beside the chair. I allowed myself to forget the unfinished talk in front of me for a few minutes as I flipped through the pages, losing myself in all the years that had passed: an email from my first love, a candy bar note from Mom, special cards from Grandma and Grandpa. A construction paper ghost fluttered out of the open notebook and landed on the beige carpet beside my chair.  It smiled up at me, and I smiled back.  I had almost forgotten about that ghost. The memory strengthened me, and I faced my computer again.

When I think of love at home, I think of doors decorated with stars before shows and big auditions.  I’ll never forget coming out to my car to drive to my All-State Choir audition my junior year of high school and finding the interior covered with encouraging notes from my mom.  My audition was the day before Halloween, and the note stuck to my steering wheel was a construction paper ghost saying, “You’ll sing boo-tifully!”  Mom’s sense of humor always eased my nerves and lessened my self-doubts.

Another stopping place. “Heavenly Father, please help me.  I can’t do this alone.”  I wanted to say more.  I wanted to describe my grief over losing my best friend, my discouragement at the daunting task before me, my anger that He’d taken my mother away.  But I was too weary.

She had told us of her own desperate prayers as we sat on the back porch in a family circle Sunday evening. “Every day, I plead with the Lord, ‘Dear Father, let me live.  Let me live to raise my girls.’  I always felt, somewhere deep inside, that God would answer that prayer.  And now here you are—sixteen, nineteen, and twenty-one.  Is that raised?  I don’t know.  But I look at the three of you, and I am so proud of the women you have become.  I am so proud to be your mother.”

The women we’ve become.  I started writing again.

When I think of love at home, I think of the times my mom was hard on us girls.  My mother was so wise with her advice, her punishments, and her approach to parenting.  I’ll never forget the times she made me take a taxi to school because she was tired of bailing me out when I missed the bus; or one night when we had a bunch of obnoxious friends over being rowdy at 3 a.m., and we heard her voice thundering down the stairs, “If you don’t live here, go home!  If you do live here, go to bed!”

I chuckled as I remembered the looks on their faces.  They cleared out of our house in a hurry.

She was endlessly patient, but she also knew where to draw the line: a perfect combination.  She showed us she loved us by being hard on us once in a while.  And times weren’t always perfect.  There were many times when I’m sure we drove her crazy, hurt her feelings, and made her worry.  My older sister had some unusually rough years in high school—

Waking up in the middle of the night to them yelling at each other, wondering if there would ever be peace in my home again.  Did that really happen?  It seemed so long ago, so hard to remember.  Sarah was a different person now, and Mom had erased those nights from her memory.

—and when my sister is asked how she made it through, she has to reply “because my mom just kept loving me.”  When I think of love at home, I think of the many times that Mom never gave up on her girls.

I paused for a moment, then I continued. She had never considered “her girls” to be just her own three.

When I think of love at home, I think of the way my mom opened her home and her heart to our friends.  My mom loved teenagers.  She worked extensively in the Young Women’s program at our church, and she always seemed to be able to see into teenagers’ hearts.  Recently, one of my closest friends told me that the thing she most admired about my mom was that she knew that no matter what, no matter how much trouble she was getting into on the weekends, she was always welcome in our home.  She had some very rebellious years but often came to our home for love and refuge.  She knew that my mom could see past her clothes and her unwise decisions into her heart.

Meg would be at the service tomorrow.  She was flying in from Tennessee.  She couldn’t miss saying goodbye to her “Mother Westover.”

My mom took in kids from all walks of life, and they felt her love within our home.

The sound of his voice broke the cold silence of the Cowan’s home: “RW the big RW?”

I grinned.  Only my Dad could call me one of his ridiculous nicknames at a time like this. “Daddy!” I called into the hallway, opening my arms for a hug as soon as he came into view.

“How’s it comin’, girl?”  He rustled my hair as he took a seat on the arm of my chair.

I covered my computer screen, not wanting him to read the words that I found so inadequate.  “Dad, this is hard.”

“I know.”

“How can I ever do her justice?”

“You can’t, Rach.”  I looked up at him, and he continued.  “But you can try.”

I hugged him around the waist, resting my head on his chest.

Silence.

“She was really something, wasn’t she, Rachel?”

“Oh yeah.”

“And you know what?  You’re really somethin’ too.”

I smiled without looking up, snuggling a little closer to him and breathing him in.  After a few minutes, he kissed me on the head.  “Well, girlfriend, I’ll leave you to it.”  He paused before leaving the room, “And just remember, you’re RW the awesome RW!”  And he was gone.

More silence.

My Daddy. The unfinished document before me blurred as tears filled my eyes for the first time in days. I cried as I thought of the way he looked last night at dinner. Aunts, cousins, friends talking a mile a minute all around him—he didn’t notice.  He stared at his plate.

I cried as I thought of the weekend they told us, in a hotel room at La Quinta in Orem, Utah.  They’d driven all the way from Colorado to “talk as a family.”  We knew what that meant.  We’d heard the words so many times before: “Girls, your mom is sick again.”  But this time, they weren’t telling us that Mama was sick; this time they were telling us that Mama was dying.

I cried as I remembered the first time I saw her after the fateful news, in another hotel room in Moab, Utah. I typed as I cried:

When I think of love at home, I think of the way my mom kept fighting through her illness, never complaining or letting the cancer get the better of her, just so she could be with her family.  This past March, two days after her brain surgery, she insisted that she and my dad drive out to Moab, Utah to watch me run my first half marathon race.
“Rachel, I’m coming to your half marathon.”

“Mom, please don’t worry about it.  It’s two days after your surgery.  Trust me, Mom, I understand if you can’t be there.”

“Oh, I know you understand.  But I want to be there.  I am going to be there when my baby crosses the finish line after running thir-teen miles!”  She let out a cheer on the other end of the phone line.

And she made it all right.  I laughed through my tears as I remembered the way she had marched into our hotel room the night before the race with a homemade sign in each hand, one for me and one for my friend who was running with me, humming her own triumphant parade music.

I continued:

When I crossed the finish line, there was my mom, with scars on her forehead but a huge smile on her face.  She was the first person to come over and give me a hug.

I need water. 

Only the sound of my feet on the kitchen floor and the opening of cupboards as I searched for a cup broke the stillness.  I stood beside the Deep Rock water dispenser, staring out the sliding glass door while I sipped.  The neighbor kids were jumping on their trampoline.  My mind was so blurry—how could the neighbor kids be jumping on their trampoline when my mom was dead?  The world around me moved on, but I stood frozen.

She’s not gone.  She can’t be.

I remembered the moment I’d buried my face in the scratchy cushions of the emergency room couch and told myself to wake up.  I told myself over and over, squeezing my eyes so tightly that the blackness started to burn.  But I opened my eyes to the nightmare—I was not dreaming.  There was the doctor.  There was my dad, staring vacantly at the clipboard in front of him.  There was my mom, white like porcelain and still.  So still.

I had to move.

I strode back to my computer and began typing rapidly—there was another celebration I had to mention.  Something else my mom would never have been willing to miss.

When I came home from college in May, she helped me throw a Harry Potter birthday party and put all of her limited energy into making my party a success. On the evening of the big occasion, she glowed with an excitement that I hadn’t seen in her for months. 

As each of the guests walked in, she slid her glasses down to the tip of her nose, put her hand on her hip in what she considered an intimidating pose, and declared, “Look!  I’m McGunnell!”

“Mo-ther!  It’s McGonagall!” “Oh.  Right.  I’m McGonagall!”

The words kept coming, flowing faster than my fingers could type:

The evening was a total blast, complete with elaborate costumes, decorations, food, and games.  The night meant so much to me, and for my mom’s birthday in June, I framed our family photo from that occasion, all five of us in full-out character and costume, in classic Westover fashion.

The note.  Where was that note? I grabbed my journal from the floor, quickly flipping the colored pages.  I knew it was in there somewhere—I’d copied it before I had given it to her.

There it was on my Hogwarts stationary: the note that had made her cry when I gave it to her at the Pancake House during her birthday brunch.  I read the words.  It was so personal.  Too personal?  No, I wanted to share this. I wanted to share what my mom had given me with all the friends and family who were gathering to celebrate her life. So I continued:

With the frame, I wrote my mom a note that I would like to read to you today because I feel it captures so many of the gifts my mother has given me over the years.

I held the letter in one hand—squinting at the faint, xeroxed words—and typed with the other:

Mama!
I picked this photo and frame out special because to me it captures so much more than just a great picture of a great night. When I look at this picture, I see years and years of family fun: theme parties, vacations, laughter and love in everyday life.Let’s face it…our family has fun together! I think the love and happiness we have in our home is unusual, and it is the blessing for which I am the most thankful.

When I look at this picture, I see the years that were a gift from God, the thirteen years that we weren’t “supposed” to have.I feel so blessed for those years. What would we have done without you? We certainly wouldn’t be the family we are today.I certainly wouldn’t be the woman I am today.

And finally, when I look at this picture, I see the greatest gift and legacy you’ve given me: the ability to keep my chin up and keep having fun and bringing joy to others, even when things are rotten. I see the countless times you did something a little extra for our family, to make our sometimes bleak lives magical. And it really has been magical, hasn’t it? Thank you for showing me how to enjoy to the end.I know things in our lives are only gonna get tougher from here, but I framed this picture for myself too, and when life is hard, I hope we’ll both look at this picture and remember our blessings and remember that life is, and always can be, magical. That’s the greatest lesson you’ve taught me.

Happy birthday, Mama.

I love you, Rachel

Sleep.  I have to sleep.

I staggered over to the couch and put my face in one of the fluffy cushions.  Blackness.  Like the total blackness of the night that she died. I’d prayed so fervently that night as I lay in bed between my sleeping sisters, staring into the darkness of the room, “Please Heavenly Father, show me Heaven.  Show me where my mom is, just for one second.  One second is all I’m asking, and then I can believe.”

But He didn’t show me Heaven.  And as I lay there in the darkness, I wondered if that was all that came after this life—blackness.  What if everything I’ve always believed is a lie?
The morning light renewed my faith, but the blackness of night brought nightmares about those terrifying moments before I called 9-1-1.  The blackness at night haunted my faith in a world beyond my own.

Yet with my face pressed into the pillow on the Cowan’s couch, my blurred mind felt heavy with all the thoughts and memories.  As I had so many times that summer, I endured the darkness, blocked out reality, and went to sleep.

When I awoke, the living room clock showed 6:04 p.m.  I groaned and rolled over to face into the navy blue couch.  I was awake again.  And she was still dead.  And I had still not seen Heaven.  And I still had a talk to finish.

I knew what had to be written next, and I needed one of her hugs to give me courage.  There had been so many hugs at the end, when she was no longer strong enough to stand by herself.  The lucky person who stood in front of her and lifted her up from her chair got an automatic hug as she steadied herself on her weak feet.

“I need a hug, Mama.”  My request went unanswered in the silence of the Cowan’s living room.  I settled in front of my computer again.

When I think of love at home, I will always think of those last few months of my mother’s life, when there were so many hugs, so many evenings working on scrapbooks as a family, so many nights falling asleep with my arms around her, and so many “I love yous."  The Holy Spirit in our home was stronger than it ever had been before because of the growing intensity of my mom’s love for us.


And now for the hardest part.

I had the great privilege of spending the day with my mom on Monday.  It was such a special day, as we laughed and talked and just sat together.  I wanted to share some of my favorite verses of scripture with her, and as I flipped through the pages, my eyes landed on a verse about death that I had never really noticed before, and it hit me with such force that I almost cried.  I wanted to share it with my mother, but I never got the chance before she needed to be rushed to the emergency room, where she passed away.   

Later that night, after we had returned home from the hospital, I sat on the front steps of my home and took in the stillness.  A cool wind was blowing and someone had scattered roses up our front steps and across our lawn.  I got out my scriptures and read the verse aloud to my mom:

“And I soon go to the place of my rest, which is with my Redeemer; for I know that in Him I shall rest.  And I rejoice in the day when my mortal shall put on immortality, and shall stand before Him; then shall I see His face with pleasure, and He will say unto me: Come unto me, ye blessed, there is a place prepared for you in the mansions of my Father.  Amen.”

In the quiet that followed, I felt sure that somewhere, somehow, my mom had heard my words.  And not only had she heard them, she had experienced them for herself. In the dark moments that have followed this past week—those lonely times in the middle of the night when I have awakened and wondered if everything that I have ever believed is a lie—I have held on to that moment on the front steps of my home, that moment of complete peace and assurance that there is something wonderful beyond this life, and my mom is a part of it. 

I exhaled. In the stillness of the Cowan’s home, I felt the same assurance I’d felt in that moment on the front steps.  Something inside reaffirmed that the words I had just typed were true: The blackness is not everything.  God had not taken my mom from our family circle in the emergency room.  Our family is eternal.

I’ve always known it.  She taught me from the time I was a three-year-old kneeling beside her and learning to pray.  She taught me every day of her life, even in that last afternoon we spent together.  I’ve always known that my family is forever.  But as I lived the nightmare, as I faced those dark moments in the middle of the night, I finally understood what that really means.

My closing words came without deliberation, came from the most honest place in my heart.

I thank her for everything she was and everything that she gave to me.  I thank her for making my life a “bliss complete” because of the love she brought to our home.  And as another line in the hymn says, I know that a very special woman in heaven “smiles above when there’s love at home.”  That we may always live with the kind of love in our home that would be worthy for my mom to smile down on us is my prayer.

In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.


I closed my eyes and put my head in my hands.  The air came in and out of my lungs so easily.

I don’t know how much time passed before I switched off my computer, stacked my journals, and walked to the front door.  Outside the front window, I could see Brother Mosier and his family pulling weeds from our rocks and trimming the edges of our grass, preparing our home for the open house the next day. But no one touched the roses.

The heat swallowed me as I stepped from the silence into the busyness of the evening. I waved at the Mosiers, followed the roses up the front lawn, and went back into my home.

My family was waiting for me.

Memories of my Dad in the Midst of Losing my Mom

This is part three of a blog series for my dad's 60th birthday. (Part 1 here and part 2 here.)  I am hoping to chronicle 60 memories by the end of the week. Today's installment is not fun and lighthearted like the first two; in this post, I will share memories of how my relationship with my dad grew stronger through my mom's battle with breast cancer and her death.
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Over President’s Day weekend of my freshman year of college, my life changed forever when I got a call from my dad.  I was in bed with a horrible cold, and I remember that I was lying there surrounded by used tissues when my Dad’s number came up on the caller ID.  I answered it cheerfully and asked when he was doing, “Oh your mom, Laura, and I are just driving to Utah to see you,” he said.  There had been no plan for them to visit that weekend, so I sat up in bed, confused.  “Now??” I asked. “Yes,” he continued. “We need to talk as a family.”  The moment that those words left his mouth, my heart seized inside of my chest.  I knew at that instant that I was going to lose my mom.  There was no other reason that they would be driving all that way to Utah just to talk to us.  Her cancer must be back, and if it was back, it was deadly.

I don’t remember the details of that weekend; I don’t remember the conversation where they broke the news.  I do remember that about a month later, my mom and Dad again drove to Utah, this time to support me as I ran my first half marathon.  My mom had had a laser operation on a tumor in her brain just a few days before, so she had little scars near her hairline, but she was there nonetheless.  Both of my parents were so proud of me.  I was new to running, but my dad had been a recreational runner for years, and he was excited for me to get home for the summer so we could jog together.

We ran together a lot that summer.  I think it was an outlet for both of us as we watched my mom deteriorate—a way to run off the grief we were feeling, an escape into nature, a time to talk and think.  On the weekends, we would wake up early and run four or five miles on the beautiful canal trail by our home.  Sometimes we would talk about my mom’s illness; sometimes we would just run.  I remember getting home from our jogs and sipping cups of Gatorade with ice on the backporch while my dad read the newspaper.  The routine was comforting during a summer that was anything but.

We did have some fun as a family during that difficult summer, and my dad's signature sense of humor shone through on occasion.  We would often laugh about the hilarious things Mom would say when her morphine kicked in (she once told us that John Elway was on his way to visit her).  One evening, I waxed my mom's upper lip and chin because the medications that she was taking caused facial hair growth.  My dad came into the room and teased, "You were starting to have a better five-o'clock-shadow than me!" and my mom swatted him good-naturedly.  Even in the midst of so much sadness, there was laughter.

My mom passed away on July 14, 2003.  I was my mom’s caregiver during the day that summer, and she was having a really difficult morning so she asked to call my dad at work.  She had become child-like at the end of her life, and she sounded timid and a little whiny when she admitted to him that she had fallen down and wasn’t feeling very good.  He comforted her, and I remember that she called him “Bert,” a nickname that started in the beginning of their marriage but that I didn’t often hear her use.  “Oh, Bert,” she said at one point, “what are we going to do?”  My dad told her to hand the phone to me, and he asked if he should come home.  I told him that I thought she was okay, just a little sad from her fall earlier.  I don’t remember how they finished up their call—I’m sure they said their usual I-love-yous.  None of us knew that it would be the last time that they would speak in this life. 

 

A few hours later I called my dad sobbing uncontrollably.  My mom had lost consciousness and the paramedics were there.  He was already in his car halfway home when he got my call, and he started driving over medians and running stoplights to try to get home to us.  He pulled up to the house just as the ambulance was pulling away with me and my mom inside, and he followed us to the hospital.

My older sister was with my dad (she worked at his office that summer), and my little sister was out with friends but happened to come home just as my dad did, so we all met up at the Emergency Room and held hands around Mom's bed.  She passed away about an hour later, with her husband and daughters surrounding her.  I don’t remember many of the details other than the devastation that I felt, the total numb.  I lay on a couch in the ER waiting room, my face turned into the scratchy pillows, my eyes swollen from crying, and when I looked up, my dad was staring blankly at a clipboard as the doctor explained next steps to him.  I will always remember how he looked: defeated, devastated, drained of any joy or hope.  I had never seen my dad look that way, and I have never seen it again since.

The next night, my dad came to my room and sat on the edge of my bed as I sobbed into my pillow.  He put his hand on my back and let me pour out all of my grief and fear:  “What if we never see Mom again?” I asked him through tears. “What if everything we believe about heaven and God is a lie?”  He didn’t immediately reassure me that of course it is all true, and he didn’t censure me for having doubts either.  He merely let me cry, and when I was done, he said, thoughtfully, “Rachel, I absolutely do believe in God and life after death--I want you to know that.  But I also want you to know that of course there have been times in my life when I have had questions and doubts.  But during those times, I’ve always decided that no matter what comes after this life, this is the best way to live.” I have never forgotten that conversation or his understanding of my fears.  I have also never forgotten his assurance that having faith is the best way to live: it gives us hope and stability in an otherwise tumultuous world.

In the months after my mom’s passing, my sisters and I surprised my dad by recording a CD of us singing some of his favorite songs, to bring him comfort and to let him hear our voices after we were gone back to college.  My mom had actually planned this gift with me shortly before her passing, and it was a joy to make it happen.  We gave it to my dad on my parents’ wedding anniversary.  We arranged for our friend who plays the piano to come over and play for us while we gave Dad a private concert, and then at the end, we said, “And there’s more…” and pulled out the CD.  My dad has never loved a gift so much.  He embarrassed us by making dozens of copies and giving it to family and friends.  Seriously, I’m pretty sure the mailman must have a copy.  And my dad still listens to it on repeat in his car at times and calls me to tell me how much he loves it.

When my older sister, Sarah, and I headed back to college at the end of that summer, my dad stepped into the “Mom” role more than ever as he helped us get ready.  Hours after he got home from dropping us off in Utah, my older sister’s very serious boyfriend broke up with her (worst timing ever), and when my dad got the phone call from Sarah, he turned around and drove back to Utah to spend the weekend with her.  He had always been invested in our lives, but without our mom to rely on emotionally, he really stepped up to fill that gap.

He sent us cute care packages for holidays, something my mom had always done.  They were not elaborate: a t-shirt from Old Navy, a bag of candy, and a funny card or gag-gift from him, but they meant the world to us.  He talked to us on the phone several times a week and counseled us about our classes, our relationships, and our worries and dreams.  He sent us flowers on important days, such as my first day of student teaching.  (And in subsequent years, he always sent me flowers on my first day teaching school.)

Back at home, he developed an extremely close and special relationship with my little sister, Laura.  She was 16 and about to start her junior year of high school when my mom passed away.  The two of them had a “date night” one evening of every weekend (isn’t that the cutest?) and supported each other during those first few years of terrible grief.  When my little sister was applying to colleges, my dad was the one to help her with that involved process.  When she was rejected by Stanford, she called him at work to tell him the disappointing news.  He came home a little early and made a banner that said “Stanford Sucks!” and hung it over our garage for my sister to see when she pulled in after her dance class.  So hilarious!!!  He also had her favorite ice cream waiting for her.

Truly, the only blessing to come from my mother’s passing is how close it brought my sisters and me to our dad.  We had always been close to him, as evidenced by my childhood and teenage memories, but this extremely difficult trial brought it to an entirely new level.  

Last year, my dad gave a talk in church on Father’s Day and explained a little about the special relationships that he has been able to develop with us since my mom’s passing; he said that he wished he would’ve been as involved when she was still living.  He encouraged all of the dads in the congregation to connect with their kids emotionally and not just allow their wives to do that.

My dad has taken such good care of us in the twelve years since my mom passed away, and I hope we have taken care of him.  Our healing was his first priority, and we have all navigated our grief together.

I love him.  I don’t know what we would do without him.  He has shown us how to grieve with faith, how to reach out to others even in the midst of our own pain, and how to move forward with hope through life’s most difficult struggles.

(Part four here.)

A Letter to My Mother

**My mother passed away when I was 19 years old, on July 14, 2003.  Since her death, I've written her a letter every year on Mother's Day, and it's become a tradition that I really look forward to.  I think these letters will become my personal history someday, as they always chronicle the ups and downs of my previous year.

I don't usually share these letters but have decided to share this one because it explains the name that we have chosen for our Baby Girl who is due in August.  I miss my mother and am so grateful for the knowledge that families are eternal.  I know that, somehow, she is aware of me and of these letters that I write to her.  I love her.

*Me and my mama, shortly after my birth:

Dear Mama,

Another year has passed with so much news to share.  We’ve had our highs and our lows—but, as always, we have so much to be grateful for.

I’m glad that Mother’s Day happens every year in the spring when the long winter is just ending, the flowers are blooming, and the sky is blue.  It’s a time of year that always makes me feel hope and reminds me that, like the winter, the trials in our lives do end—“joy comes in the morning.”  I’m grateful that it is often with this perspective in my heart that I am able to write my annual update to you.

This year especially, I am filled with joy as I write your Mother’s Day letter because, even as I type this, I can feel a tiny, precious, little being moving around inside of me.  Yes, that’s right, Mama—I am pregnant!  We did IVF in the fall, and miraculously and mercifully, it worked.  My long years of infertility are over, and a little girl will join our family sometime in the beginning of August.  Only three more months to go…I can’t wait.

We are going to name her Sally Grace—Sally, after both of her incredible grandmas, and Grace, because I could not have gotten pregnant or made it through this pregnancy without Him.  Truly, it’s all been a miracle—an experience that I never knew if I would get to have.

After adopting Noah, it no longer really mattered to me if I ever had biological children; I learned firsthand that the children God intended for our family would get to us somehow, and that my love for them would be all-encompassing, unconditional, and inexpressibly deep, whether I carried them in my womb or not.  Yet I am grateful for the opportunity that I’ve had to be pregnant, not because my love for this baby is any different than my love for Noah—but because this new experience has taught me just as much about life, faith, and myself as adoption did.

It has been pretty tough, Mama.  The IVF experience was difficult, with daily hormone shots and doctor appointments and procedures—and then I was terribly nauseated for the first 17 weeks or so of my pregnancy.  I couldn’t really function and couldn’t take good care of Noah, and I felt lonely and desperate at times, wishing for no one else but you to come take care of me and help me.  I am almost 28 weeks pregnant now, and I still feel nausea almost every day, though it is not nearly as bad as it was early on.  Add to that headaches and backaches, insomnia and bladder infections, and it’s been quite a tumultuous seven months!  As is always the case when I go through a physically difficult experience, it makes me think of you and your long battle with cancer.  How did you do it, Mom?  How did you live with such grace and gratitude, even when you felt awful?  I have often yearned for your advice during all of this, but when I think about it, I feel like I know what you would tell me if you were here: Take it one day at a time.  Get through the day, do your best, and never lose faith that God is there and He is helping you. I am trying, Mama—I am trying to be like you.

Oh how I wish I could’ve seen and heard your reaction to the news of my pregnancy.  It was so fun to tell our families the incredible news.  There were cheers and tears, fist pumps and hugs—and Ryan and I just felt overwhelmingly grateful that we have such amazing people in our lives to love and support us.  We are mighty, mighty blessed.

I’ve always thought that we would probably name a little girl Sally, since it is so special that both of our moms share that name—but I didn’t want to make a definitive decision until the time got closer.  Once we found out that this baby is a girl, I made a list of all of the girl names that I love—and there are a lot of them!—because I wanted to give each one of them a fair shot; but for some reason, the only name that stood out to me was “Sally.”  My eyes kept coming back to it every time I looked at the list, and it was the name that came into my mind whenever I thought about or pictured the baby.  “I think her name is Sally,” I told Ryan one evening, as I stared at the list of names, and I was surprised when he immediately agreed.  (We had quite a bit of trouble agreeing on Noah’s name before he was born.)

And speaking of Noah, he took quickly to the name as well.  I was afraid he might be confused by all of the Sallys in his life, but he seems to understand perfectly that Grandma Sally is in heaven, Grandma Nielson is “Big Sally,” and the baby in Mama’s belly is “Little Sally.”  Just the other day, a saleslady asked Noah if his mom had an Elmo in her belly, and he responded quite vehemently, “No!  It’s not an Elmo; it’s a Sally!”  He is the cutest, smartest, spunkiest, little boy, Mama.  You would absolutely adore him.  As hard as it can be sometimes, motherhood has been the best experience of my life, and I am nervous and excited to expand that experience with the addition of another baby.  How much love can one heart hold?  Will I really love this new baby as much as I love Noah?  It feels impossible—but I know that I will.

I love that this special little girl is going to have your name and that I will get to think of you every day when I say it.  I hope that she has your strength and resilience, your love of life and your undaunted courage.   I hope she has Ryan’s mom’s amazing ability to nurture and to mother, her innate goodness and her desire to do what’s right.  I certainly want our Sally Grace to be her own person, but I hope she will look to the example of her grandmothers and be inspired by the lives you lived and the people you were.  I hope she will also think about her middle name and always embrace the goodness of God throughout her life—allowing Him to fill her, enable her, strengthen her, and lighten every burden.

I can’t wait to meet her.  As I’ve started to feel her moving more in the past month, I have been filled with a happiness and excitement that is hard to explain—it must be what people mean when they say that pregnant women “glow.”  I am honored to be her mother and to be carrying her in my womb.  As hard as pregnancy has been (and still is at times), it’s an experience that I would not trade; even the horrible nausea has given me wisdom and empathy that I know will be invaluable to me for the rest of my life.  That’s the only worthwhile outcome of trials, isn’t it?  The faith, wisdom, and empathy that come as a result and enable us to better love and serve other people throughout our lives.  No wonder you were so amazing at connecting with and loving people—you’d been refined, humbled, and strengthened through all of the trials you suffered.

Oh, how we miss you, Mama.  We have needed you this year.  Laura had her first baby, Lucas Michael, in January (can you believe it??), and the experience of welcoming him into our family has brought us all so much joy—but it has also magnified the loss that we feel without you here.  Family milestones and celebrations always do that.  Sarah has continued to struggle with depression, and though she is amazingly strong and carries on as a loving mother, wife, sister, and friend through it all, she misses you deeply.  We all do.  A very common text message sent between us three girls over the past few months has been, “I miss Mom.”  Thank goodness we have Dad, who has been simply remarkable over the past eleven years that you have been gone.  We have clung to each other and to Heavenly Father, just as you always told us to, and it has made all the difference.

I do know that you are a part of our lives.  I have a feeling that you are beside us more often than we realize as we mother our own children and do our best to raise them with the same love with which you raised us—but we still wish you were here, beside us, laughing at the stories of our crazy children, and crying at our sorrows and disappointments.  There is no one who can take your place.  And no amount of time will completely erase the pain of your passing—you loved us too well for even decades of time to cause us to forget.

Your three girls are all mothers now, journeying through our own heartaches and joys, trials and triumphs—and we are thinking of you every single day.  On this Mother’s Day and always, I want to say thank you for everything you taught us and gave us and for who you were and how you loved.  Thank you for continuing to be our mother, even in heaven, and for not leaving us behind.  We still need you.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mama.

With love,

Rachel

Aunt Jackie

In the weeks before my mom passed away, she and I would often have serious talks about the future.  In one such discussion, she mentioned to me that she hoped my sisters and I would rely on my aunts after she was gone.  She said, "I know Beth and Dana live out of town and won't be able to be here for you at a moment's notice...but you know who would be?  Aunt Jackie.  She lives nearby, and she would do anything for you girls."

My mom had two sisters by birth--Beth and Dana--and she gained one more when she married my dad: my Aunt Jackie.

I recently found an amazing gift that Jackie put together for my mom for Christmas in 1991.  That had been a long year for my mom, with her cancer diagnosis, surgery, chemotherapy, bone marrow transplant, and three-month hospital stay.  Jackie put together a beautiful binder filled with letters from family and friends expressing their admiration and love for my mom, sharing favorite memories, and encouraging her in her battle.  It is a treasure to read the letters (it has had me close to tears tonight as I've flipped through it), and I'm sure it meant the world to my mom.  That was back in the days before email, so getting in touch with all of those people and compiling a gift like that must have taken my aunt a lot of time and effort.

I loved reading the memories of my mom that Jackie shared in her letter in the binder.  Here is just an excerpt: "After we were both married, it was great to live just three doors from you and Mike in Provo.  I remember all the fun we had playing UNO, going to ball games, and canning peaches when I had morning sickness so bad that I kept excusing myself.  One of the funniest things I remember was when I was in labor with Amber, and you appointed yourself official timer of the contractions.  We went to the Wilkinson Center for an ice cream cone, and you even followed me to the ladies room just in case I had another one because 'we have to get them all down on paper.'

I have so many special memories of you and your family that I could probably write pages about it all.   I am so glad that we live close so that my kids get a chance to know you and your kids.  I think Mike is very lucky and very smart to have married such a special person.  I feel very fortunate that he did because I think of you as one of the best friends I have ever had.  It seems that everyone who knows you thinks of you as a dear friend, and it is easy to see why.

As I have watched you struggle through this past year, my admiration for you has increased even more.  It has been amazing to see your strength and to see you still thinking of others.  I couldn't believe that you spent time baking cookies for my birthday the day before you went into the hospital for your bone marrow transplant.  I think that meant more to me than any present I have ever received."

I am grateful to Aunt Jackie for capturing such wonderful memories of my mom--not just her own memories, but also those of dozens of family members and friends.  What a gift to my mom and what a gift to my mom's posterity!  I can't wait to read through every letter in the binder and learn more about the amazing woman that my mom was.  I miss her, and reading the letters makes me feel like she is just a little bit closer.

Unfortunately, my mom's battle with cancer wasn't over in 1991, and over the twelve years that she continued to fight, Jackie supported my mom in countless ways--I'm sure we will never know all of the little things she did for my mom and for us in those years.  Her last gift to my mother was that she bound the baby quilts that my mom made for us to give to our children.  Mom didn't have the energy to finish them, so Jackie did.  The blanket that my mom made for me (a colorful little quilt with monsters all over it) is, without a doubt, Noah's most prized possession.  It is precious to see him snuggled up to it every night.

Jackie's gifts to my mom actually haven't stopped--because my mom was right when she told me that Aunt Jackie would be there for us whenever we needed her in the years after my mom passed away.  She helped with my little sister's costumes for high school musical productions; she taught me how to make a baby blanket for my best friend's baby shower (the same pattern that my mom used for our baby blankets); she made my older sister an amazing pioneer dress for her performing church mission in Nauvoo, Illinois.  She has helped with countless events--bridal showers, weddings, baby showers.  She has celebrated with us in our triumphs and prayed for us in our trials.  She has been an amazing aunt and friend.

Happy birthday, Aunt Jackie!  Thank you for everything you did for my mom and continue to do for me.  I love you and am so grateful for you in my life!

Mama

Today is my mom's birthday, and I am thinking of her.  I am hoping she is nearby and aware of us on her special day.

When my mom passed away, people often told me that she would "always be with me" and would never be too far away.  I loved the sentiment and was always grateful to those who expressed it, but I honestly wasn't sure if it was true.  I believed that my mom was in heaven--I just wasn't sure what that meant.  Do people in heaven have constant access to the people they love?  Do they see everything?  Can they watch over us at all times, or is that privilege reserved for special occasions such as weddings, the births of our children, and especially difficult trials?  I always felt that my mom would be with me for milestone events, but I wasn't sure how often she would be by my side during the dailiness of life.

Since becoming a mother myself, I've become more certain that my mom is aware of me and is probably nearby much more often than I realize.  I always knew that she loved me when she was alive; but now that I am a mother, I realize for the first time just how much she must have loved me.  It's amazing to think that she must've loved me--imperfect, flawed me!--with the same intensity that I love my precious Noah.  And just as I would never leave Noah behind, I know she would never leave me behind either.

This past winter, we were staying at my in-laws' ski cabin in Idaho when Noah started screaming in the night.  I usually ignore his fussing when I can tell he is just going to settle back to sleep, but this was a different kind of crying.  I could tell he was terrified, most likely because he was in a new environment and was confused and didn't know where his parents were.  I ran to him, picked up his quivering body, and held him close.  He was sobbing and clinging to me.  As I shushed him and calmed him, I kept whispering, "I will always be here, Noah.  You don't have to be afraid.  I will always be here."

As I said those words, a thought came to my mind: "How can I really promise that?  What if I were to unexpectedly die in a car accident?  Can I really promise him that I will always be here?"  And just as quickly as the first thought had come to me, another followed: "YES.  You are his mother.  Your role in his life is eternal.  Whether you are here or in the afterlife, you will always be his mother, and you will always be allowed to be with him."  I felt such peace.  I felt like this was a message from my Father in Heaven about the eternal nature of families, and since that night, I no longer doubt that my mom is with me when I need her, just as she would be if she were still living.

I think of her so often.  I mentioned in my last blog post that I recently got very ill from a medication I was taking, and through those rather terrible couple of days, I kept thinking about my mom.  She was so sick for so many years, and she had to take countless medications that affected her physically and emotionally, and yet she somehow continued to mother us with love through every day.  I remember her telling me that when she was only 35 years old and in the midst of her first round of chemotherapy and throwing up much of the day, my then three-year-old little sister would come into the bathroom and say, “When you’re done frowing up, Mommy, can you play a game with me?”  

That story absolutely breaks my heart, and it makes me want to go back in time and help my mom.  I want to make dinner, clean her house, and take care of her kiddos for a few hours.  Thank goodness she had so much support from my dad, my aunts, my grandparents, and our church community.  She couldn't have made it through without them.

That story also makes me feel something a little unexpected: It makes me feel grateful. It makes me appreciate my life and my health.  It makes me appreciate normal.  Sometimes I really--and I mean really--hate cleaning my house, doing laundry, and making meals, but having the health and ability to do those normal, mundane things is such a blessing in its own way.  I’m sure when my mom was in the hospital for three months recovering from her bone marrow transplant, she wanted nothing more than to go home and resume her everyday responsibilities as a mother—mundane cleaning and all!  It’s good for me to remember that, and sometimes it does help me to adjust my attitude when I think about it.  I turn on some music and dance around the kitchen a little as I'm doing dishes and notice how healthy and strong I feel.  I am so grateful for my health, and I hope I never lose it.

This is the photo of my mom that I have framed in Noah's room.  I tell him that Grandma Sally is in heaven, and she is watching over us.  When Noah was born, he had a birthmark on his forehead.  Some people call those birthmarks "angel kisses," which always makes me think of my mom.  If there was an angel in heaven kissing Noah on the forehead before he came to earth, I'm sure it was my mother.

I hope there are beautiful sunsets there in heaven, and I hope my mom knows how much I love her and miss her on her birthday and every day. I'm grateful for the knowledge that she was not just my mother for 19 years--but will be my mother forever and always.

Ode to the Brown Bomber (AKA "Why I am Thankful for my Parents")

It is Thanksgiving Week, and I am thankful for my parents.

I was recently going through our family photos albums, and I stumbled across some priceless pictures from the year 1983.  Apparently, when my parents' 1976 Ford Torino (the Brown Bomber, as she was affectionately called) hit 100,000 miles, they threw a little party in her honor.

The party guests all piled into the beloved vehicle, and then they drove around the block a few times until the odometer hit exactly 100,000.  They pulled over to the side of the road, the guests climbed out of the car, and my dad stood on the hood to make a solemn speech.

I am so glad that my mom put a type-writer copy of his remarks in the photo album:

"This is a great day.  It is appropriate that the weather is beautiful as we celebrate this milestone in our old friend's life.

My remarks shall be very brief, lest I embarrass the Brown Bomber, which has always been a humble creature.  I hope you don't mind if I read my comments.  It will make it easier for me to control my emotions.

Only a select few--those who truly appreciate and have experienced the goodness and worth of the Brown Bomber--have been asked to be here today.  It is heartening that there are at least a few true believers.  For, sadly, there are many who, blinded by outward appearances, scorn and ridicule this noble machine, unwilling to look beyond the surface in an attempt to discern true worth.  Indeed, quite recently, a friend (shall we say a former friend), upon encountering the Bomber for the first time, exclaimed in disgust, "Is that your car?"  We mourn for the makers of such remarks because, due to their prejudice, they shall never have their lives enriched by a meaningful relationship with this well-traveled, mature, and venerable friend.

But let me conclude.  To you, Brown Bomber, hats off!  Your virtues are many.  You are dependable, solid, and strong.  You have traveled, undaunted, through 100,000 miles of searing heat, bitter cold, and terrifying Boston traffic.  We make special note of one of your noblest achievements: On December 25, 1982, at an age when most cars are fit for nothing but the junkyard, you forged your way through over two feet of new snow to bring family and friends together on Christmas Day.  We shall not soon forget such acts.  In today's world of flimsy and insubstantial foreign cars, you are an inspiration.  We salute you.  May you travel another 100,000 miles.

(Whereupon each person present is invited to leave with the Brown Bomber a lasting token of his esteem--by striking the Bomber with a hammer.)"

Yes, they really did hit the car with a hammer.  And then they went back to my parents' house and ate a cake, lovingly prepared by my mother in Bomber's honor.

The sense of humor and fun conveyed in that story is just one of the many reasons I am grateful for my parents.  My dad is a reserved person, and those who don't know him well might never know this goofy side of him--but, honestly, I don't think it takes more than a few minutes of talking to him for flashes of his wit to come out.  That speech is going to have me laughing all day.

Happy Thanksgiving Week, everyone!