Note: I read this at Mom's funeral on August 20th, 2019. I had written it earlier in the month as her health began to decline.
c.
2019 Rod Ice
All
rights reserved
(8-19)
Duality.
I
grew up in a household founded on the principle of two as a team
being stronger than one alone. This twin tradition of nurture caused
a sort of natural balance to develop, from my beginning. Mother and
father speaking with their own distinct voices. But doing so in
harmony. He, the example for my budding self. A template. A guide for
future exploration. A mentor. A genuine sire. And she, the
encourager. The breath of life. The sustenance of spirit. The one who
always made me believe when faith in myself was needed. She carried
my fetal beginning in her womb, then carried my growing life forward
with an embrace of hope that never ended.
As a
child, she urged me to join a local 4-H club in Virginia. Something
she had done herself as a youngster. I was socially awkward and
afraid. Every meeting brought a sense of dread as I pondered my own
ability to fail. But she stayed patient. Always seeding my mind with
new thoughts. New opportunities. New inventions. In the group, I
thrived. Like a mystic, she seemed to know instinctively that this
new routine would help to open my consciousness to better things.
Creative impulses that strained the limits of traditional education
were embraced in this setting. Soon, fear of the unfamiliar became
joy in receiving the wisdom of learned souls. I chose electricity as
a focal point, with new technologies rising quickly in the early
1970’s.
Dad
approved in words. Mom gave her endorsement through the heart.
At
church, I memorized verses from the Christian Bible. Deuteronomy 5:16
laid a foundation for our philosophy as a family. “Honor thy father
and thy mother, as the Lord thy God hath commanded thee; that thy
days may be prolonged, and that it may go well with thee, in the land
which the Lord thy God giveth thee.” It was a scripture often
quoted and revered. One that helped me aim for the confidence of my
father in all things. But another settled in my heart. One that
provided fertile soil for the concept of inner dignity to push upward
toward the sunlight of truth. Selected words from Proverbs Chapter
31. “Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above
rubies. The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her so that he
shall have no need of spoil. She will do him good and not evil all
the days of her life… Strength and honor are her clothing; and she
shall rejoice in time to come… she openeth her mouth with wisdom;
and in her tongue is the law of kindness… She looketh well to the
ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness. Her
children arise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he
praiseth her. Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest
them all. Favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain: but a woman that
feareth the Lord, she shall be praised.”
My
mind valued the knowledge borne by father, a master of sacred
writings and ancient histories. But stowed deep in my spirit was the
essence gifted to me by mother. An energy conveyed not through
language or instruction, but by love. Delivered directly, just as her
own flesh cradled and cultivated my own to the point of independence.
Perhaps
this bond was the reason for our emotional connection, long after I
had graduated to adult life. We would joke in the family that a
typical conversation by telephone was divided unequally. With Dad, a
chat might last five minutes. With Mom, it was more likely to run for
a few hours. With him, each minute of speaking carried informative
thoughts that might still resound many weeks into the future. Yet
from her, there was a sort of comfort not unlike sitting in her lap
as a child. Wandering in subject matter from this page to the next,
or back again. Not following any chronology or discipline. Sharing
feelings that words were strained to express. When my wife would ask
what we had talked about for so long, the answer might echo as a
riddle. “Nothing!” This often produced a blank stare or crossed
arms and a glare of befuddlement. Still, it was true.
Mom
and I could talk about ‘nothing’ and from that
stream-of-consciousness, derive what felt like everything, in my
heart.
Even
when bowed by the weight of many years, she retained this ability to
spread charm and goodwill easily. Like slathering butter on a
fresh-baked piece of her French bread. At the Mansfield Place nursing
home, even after father had ascended to eternity, she gabbed and
smiled and laughed and celebrated each day of being alive. Like
savoring a feast set before the flock. When we visited, I sought
comfort and personal validation as her child. But just as often, my
reward was in seeing her skill with strangers and seekers-of-solace
around the table. Her ability to channel the energy of God into a
simple, daily prayer remained remarkable. I reflected on the old
admonition to “Grow where you are planted.” In a dozen
congregations and more, from west Virginia to Michigan to Ohio,
Pennsylvania and New York, she did just that with determination.
Always able to find enough sunlight and rain to fuel her forward
motion.
Paired
with Dad, she created a partnership that endured to inspire others
for many decades. While he paused with coffee and lesson materials,
she put the holy scriptures into daily use. Making each word of
Christ come alive in practice. Offered not from the pulpit, but over
a fence in the yard, or a table in the kitchen. Given with no-bake
cookies or her McCray-style vegetable soup. A present for the spirit
and the belly.
This
dual concept – that food was a blessing, and a celebration or sorts
in the name of God, worked well for me, in childhood and beyond.
Perhaps it is why that I still think most fondly of dinners in the
church basement where breaking bread together, while reasoning over
scripture, was my favorite activity.
To
bid Dad farewell, while holding fast to the faith that we would meet
again, challenged my resolve even as I believed it to be true. But
giving the same salute to Mom, the one who gave me life within
herself, was somehow different. A conundrum in seeing the beginning
of ‘me’ coming to a mortal end, in her passing. A sting of death
being separated from my own beginning. From the spark that set my
sentient self ablaze. From the garden where I grew from a mustard
seed. From the pool where I learned to swim before wallowing toward
the vast ocean of human experiences.
To
truly say goodbye would be unbearably sad. So I take relief in
knowing that this moment does not come with that kind of finality,
rooted in the grave. Instead, she is alive in a higher realm. One to
which I can hope to ascend, by following the example of father, and
accepting her encouragement to soar.
I
love you, Mom.
Write
us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024
