Some find it not entirely coincidental that my mother went up to Glory at the exact time a power plant in our town went up in flames.
Given my reputation for mischief, several have asked exactly where I was at 6 a.m. Monday. I was asleep in bed. I have a witness. My daughter has an alibi too. She was with her cousin Lena a few feet from the grandest graduation ceremony a soul could wish for: the passing of her grandmother into the presence of Jesus.
Mom had been tired of this earth for a while, and finally she’d had enough. I tried to feed her; she refused. I tried the things she tried on me to trick me into eating mashed veggies when I was a toddler. But she clenched her lips. Maybe she was dreaming of a grander feast in another land.
Then she quit drinking entirely. Quit cold turkey at 85. Monday morning in her sleep she slipped into heaven to see what Jesus was building for her. I think she was astounded. I’ll bet the second person to greet her there was Dad. He probably said, “Pucker up, Bernice. Welcome Home!”
So how do you say goodbye to the first woman who ever kissed you? The one who rocked you and read to you and showed you where to find Jesus? How do you say goodbye to your biggest fan, to one of the greatest apologetics for Christianity you’ve ever met? First you cry a lot. And then you smile, because you remember how imperfect she was.
She once tied me to the clothesline with the dog collar. I quite enjoyed sitting on the back step pondering a dog’s life. But she felt so guilty she released me with a warning: “Stop running away.” And I did. Mom would have been reported for such behaviour nowadays. Mothers weren’t perfect back then—but they were present.
Neighbour kids from my childhood have been phoning and emailing. In our backyard they knew they could play football, baseball, and ball hockey without being threatened with live ammunition. I don’t know if the decision was easy, but Mom chose children over grass. Our house was a haven. Bob Kirk used to fall asleep on our sofa. He may still be there.
One note from a friend who has wandered far from God said, “Your mother was about the only Christian I could stand to be around.” She hugged kids with more tattoos than brain cells. Perhaps it was her bad eyesight, or perhaps she had very good eyesight—so good she only saw the stuff that mattered.
You were safe at our house. I never once heard her speak an unkind word about my papa, a preacher, or even a politician. She would defend complete idiots sometimes. Referees, for instance. I guess she figured that God had shown so much grace to her, she’d better show some to others.
When I looked for a bride I wanted someone like my mom, one who wanted nothing more in this life than to follow Jesus with all her heart.
Mom suffered through the Great Depression, and also suffered through a not-so-great depression herself. In my earliest memories she is sick. I think I got into comedy to cheer her up, hoping she’d get up off the bed and walk and sing and dance like she did sometimes.
On summer vacations I watched her hand gospel tracts to leather-clad bikers, telling them the best news she knew. I was sure they would murder her—and me—but they didn’t. Her charm was irresistible, even to the Hells Angels. Mom was fearless, yet she was the first person I ever saw have a panic attack. From her I learned that our greatest saints often struggle the most. They grow saintly hanging onto Jesus with everything they’ve got.
With the onset of dementia, Mom’s tact filter went bye-bye. “Your nose is crooked,” she once told me, before slugging me in the arm. Into her 80’s she still packed a wallop. “I have the FAT nurse today,” she hollered, causing me to duck and wince and heads to turn. Then she whispered. “This growing old ain’t for kids.”
Our town lost a power generator and a great generator of power all at once. Mom prayed almost non-stop as her years increased. Three best-selling authors said they wouldn’t have written a book without her encouragement. The same is true for me. Mom was a writer who was content to stay at home while her books travelled the world. She could have secretaried, administrated, or managed a staff, but she showed me that money is a lousy substitute for the adoration of 5 kids and 13 grandchildren. And it was those children who stood around her bedside singing hymns past tears, thanking God for her life.
How do you say goodbye to such a girl? Maybe you don’t. You say thank you. Thanks for the inspiration and the memories and for being my number one fan.
And thank you, Lord, that because she’s with you and you’re with me, we aren’t so very far apart. Heaven is looking sweeter all the time.
