Community joy in the face of adversity
Recently, my birth mother passed away. She lived our model of community joy with relationships, purpose, fitness, contemplation and fun being central in her life. Here is my eulogy for her. As she experienced so much joy in the face of struggles, she showed community joy can be for everyone.
Lucy, Lucinda, Cinda, Cindy, my birth mom, mom, Grandma. Proud mother, grandmother, aunt, sister, friend.
We might think of her life as filled with tragedy. But that’s not the story she would tell.
She didn’t dwell. She might matter-of-factly talk about a tough time, mostly when asked, but then she’d quickly look forward and focus on the small joys. She loved her BINGO — where I hear she was on quite the winning streak; reading; going to her home’s wine and cheese receptions. She was very social and enjoyed a party. She’d indulge in the extra slice of cake and conversation — and would still be in bed before 8 and up before 4 the next morning.
She took great joy in our small joys too. She loved to ask about our weekend, with sometimes randomly specific questions like “are you going to have Indian food?” or “are you going to go bowling?” Whatever we were doing, she responded with an enthusiastic “how neat” or “how fun.”
Many of those little expressions will stay with us, as will her concise, deadpan wit. She once asked me “when are you going to start treating me to the life to which I ought to become accustomed?” I wish I had had space on my phone to save more of her classic messages like the one I do have saved that began with “Justin hon, I just want you to know that woman who gave me the finger at BINGO isn’t very attractive. She doesn’t have a nice face . . ..” From there it went somewhere funnier and not appropriate for church. These messages inevitably ended with “I love you hon.”
She applied that wit to herself too. Where others might get stuck on failure, she gave a self-deprecating laugh and moved on. “I shouldn’t have become a high school teacher,” she told me, laughing. “I hated being a teenager myself. The students could tell I was terrified of them.” She had pursued her Masters in teaching and was fluent in French and Spanish — but when it didn’t go well, she moved on.
She wasn’t afraid of failure — and she wasn’t afraid to give it her all and give all of herself. When she was in assisted living, she visited with others in a memory care unit and she helped plan activities. She sang loud and proud from when she sang me lullabies to singing in church to the chorus she joined. She gave us many artworks. Bright, bold colors, simple shapes. She was a novice, but she loved painting and giving. She spent the very limited spending money she had in recent years on sweaters and shirts for me from the L.L. Bean Catalogue and gifts for Vanessa and the children and Jamie and his family. She loved her family so much. She planned her gifts months and months in advance.
She humbly gave it her all as a mother — in whatever form her motherhood could take. When I returned to her at age 6 after living with my family in England, she had done her homework. She had Mousercize videos to ensure I exercised every day. She had an album telling me not to do drugs — which I probably didn’t quite need at that age, but she wanted to make sure I was ready. She regularly asked my principal and teacher for advice and followed it — like when he told her to invite my whole class to my birthday party and she did. She answered my questions about her own struggles honestly, compassionately, and without defensiveness.
She gave it her all when I couldn’t live with her anymore too.
“You should ask them to tuck you in and give you a kiss at night,” my birth mother told me, soon after I had joined my future forever family. I can’t imagine how it felt to give me permission to be part of another family — but when she spoke with me as a child, her message was consistent. She couldn’t take care of me and she wanted me to grow up in a home that could. She wanted me to have a more stable childhood than she had had.
Unless she was in the hospital, she was early for every visit, when I was a child and all the way until the end. She was always nicely dressed and made up, often with a unique hat. Always with lots of color in her clothing. And though we arrived half an hour late when going to her, she greeted my family with a huge smile, hugs and kisses. She was particularly excited and proud when her beloved grandchildren were coming.
My birth mom never took herself too seriously. She once bought a rainbow colored felt fish hat with the tail hanging wagging behind her head. She wore that hat with us to lunch that day. Her not taking herself too seriously meant we also had no choice but to not take ourselves too seriously.
One last central thing about my birth mom was her deep lifelong Catholic faith, from the time of her conversion in France. She had a very special last day, though she was no longer responding. Three priests prayed with her. The hospital priest gave her last rights and a special dispensation from Pope Francis forgiving all sins and straight connection to Heaven. Fr. O’Driscoll from this parish prayed into her ear and reminisced with her about her time at the parish — he recalled her telling him she would remember a homily he gave saying Jesus would have died just for her (and for each one of us). Then Fr. Hickey called and prayed beautifully with her, in her beloved French and English, giving her the permission she needed to commend her spirit to Jesus. Just after midnight, she did.
Lucy will live on with each of us. Before she died, but while she was in a coma, I asked her to come to us as the Infant of Prague. When you see an Infant of Prague statue or painting, it might be Lucy coming to see you.
When we wear really bright colors or handmade sweatshirts, Lucy lives on with us.
When our kids do Mousercize, or we listen to Edith Piaf (her music is worth a listen), Lucy lives on with us.
When we enjoy one too many desserts, when we give a little more than we have to give, when we give the past a self-deprecating laugh and focus on the future, Lucy lives on with us.
When we show each other the love of being an hour early and excited, when we celebrate each other’s victories big and small, when we wish the best for others even when it hurts us, Lucy lives on with us.
And our love for her lives on. To our grandmother, birth mother, aunt, sister, friend Lucy — we love you.
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