Proverbs 1:8-9 says, “Hear, my son, your father’s instruction, and forsake not your mother’s teaching, for they are a graceful garland for your head and pendants for your neck.” Well, in my parents, I feel like I received some pretty spectacular garlands and pendants. I am so blessed to, at age 58 (staring down 59) to have my dad still with me and in relatively good health physically and amazingly good health mentally. And I am also blessed that my mom, who passed away last month, was with me, my siblings, and their children for so long.

Before Mom lost her battle with dementia, she was, like most matriarchs, the glue that held our family together. She planned all the get-togethers and made sure everyone was welcomed and had plenty to eat. And by plenty, I mean enough to live on for a week and the food was delicious beyond description, if not the healthiest in history. She started baking for the holidays in October and didn’t stop until late December. Her baked treats were famous across the family and all our friends and neighbors. One of my favorite Christmas memories is of a year when I was a teenager and the only child left at home. After Christmas Eve service, she, Dad, and I walked all over our neighborhood with trays full of Mom’s yummies for older folks who had no family to be with. It was a rare snowy Christmas Eve, making the trip all the merrier. That kind of loving gesture was just the norm for Mom.

I’m sure each of my siblings has a list of stories they could tell about our mom. And if I thought long enough, I could gather some anecdotes, but for me, it’s less about specific events and more about a feeling. The feeling of being loved and protected. Our family was not, nor is it now, perfect. We had our squabbles and we didn’t always understand each other, but when I say I grew up in a Norman Rockwell painting, I’m not really joking. Just like the feeling of warm Americana that Rockwell’s paintings evoke, when I think back on my childhood and even into my adulthood, the feeling is of being warm and welcomed and accepted and celebrated and protected. And I don’t remember a moment when I questioned, even the least bit, that I was loved–by Mom as well as Dad, Dave, Barb, and Don, along with our eleventy billion cousins.

I’m not sure if the finality of her being gone has fully hit me yet. But, while I miss my Mom. the truth is I’ve missed the Mom I grew up with for a long time since Alzheimer’s took the real her away from us. I’ve already had the breakdown moments when I thought I’d call her to ask something, like what temperature to bake something or how to make homemade syrup, only to realize I’d never have that resource again. And the abject sorrow of knowing she’d never get to shower love on my new wife and daughter like she always did with our significant others. And the regret of wondering if I’d been a good enough son or if I’d told her enough that I loved her.

But God did me a kindness right before Mom left. I didn’t know it was right before at the time, but I guess I should have. Right before I had to go out of state for work, I was helping my brother Dave each evening with getting Mom ready for bed. As we cleaned her up and changed her diaper and sheets, she often babbled nonsensical phrases, almost like a chant or a rap. About the most we could tell was that we were taking too long as the volume and pace increased. There was pretty much no direct interaction with her. But one night, we’d finally finished. It had taken a long time and I was tired, physically and emotionally, so I needed to go home and hug Sarah. Not thinking I’d get any response, I put my hand on her shoulder.

“Mom,” I said.

She looked right at me, like she actually understood I was talking to her.

I smiled at her. “I love you.”

She kept looking at me. “I love you too.”

My heart was in my throat. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.”

I went into the living room and had a good cry. Later, Sarah helped me see just how beautiful a gift I’d been given. I got to say farewell to my mom. Not goodbye. Our shared faith assures me we’ll see each other again. And that faith also gives me the comfort of knowing she’s whole and clearheaded and young and happy now. So, how can I be sad?

Thanks to my brother Dave and my cousin Kenny Boyles for the pictures.