Memorial/Funeral

A Woman of Substance (4:04)
This is a memorial video.
A tribute to my Mom ... "We finally got it right and time ran out."





Image printed directly on the disk. Booklet included inside contains listing of photos in order of appearance. External insert with photo on front and summary on the back.

Oceans, Seashells and Summer Vacations—
Remembering Mom

(first published May 2004)

Easter 1996. She made dinner for seven people—me, a friend, my two boys, Phillip and Scott, Dad, and herself. Six weeks later, she was gone.

Mom cooked family dinners every night. She kept an immaculate home in color-coordinated decor, made sure I had clothes in the latest fashion for my figure, taught me to sew and cook, and encouraged me by example that reading was an important pastime. She taught me strength as she faced adversity of her own. At Christmas time, as we visited families less fortunate than ours, she taught me compassion for others. I learned that we all have at least one passion. Mom’s was golf. Mine is reading and writing.

Two and a half years later, in 1998, I revisited a familiar place and wrote this to her:

I sit on a rock at the ocean’s edge remembering I’ve been here before.
Mom, I’ve come back to visit you here where we spent many vacation hours with the boys, Aunt Pat, and Dad. Once, soon after you died, I sat on a different beach and remembered the same thing, but promised I would get back here one day to visit you on the same ground, the same waterfront we shared in a time gone by. I’ve kept my promise.

I reflect. Short-term promises are easy to recognize in their keeping. One hasn’t had time to forget the promise. But long-term realized promises are more difficult. In the time between the promise made and the promise fulfilled, one can easily forget it. When a promise is fulfilled many days, weeks, or months later, the frustrations of the day may cloud the blessing that has finally come.

Mom, I am here to spend just a glimpse of time with you, appreciating all that you have given me. I believe I did not give you adequate recognition and appreciation when you were here, but please know you sit on high ground now. There is one quality you had that I only wish to be capable of—the ability to shrug off a mood and show a happy face to the world. I often find it difficult to do so when I need to. You were an entertainer—an actress, in your own right. I still search to figure out who and what I am, what I am really good at. I used to blame you for that struggle. But now I know it is inherent in the course of my journey. I strive so hard not to blame others for my displeasure, but I often feel I carry an anger so deep that I need help to dig it out and dispose of it. It’s time now.

I don’t quite understand why I feel so sad, so lost, so isolated. I have plenty of people around me—many who take pleasure in my company—some who seek me out.

But something is missing . . .

I sit by the ocean with that wondrous whoosh and thunder of waves washing up to shore. I contemplate how it must feel to be a sea creature carried by the waves.

Sometimes you may simply flow peacefully through the water observing life as you go by. Sometimes you may be crushed by the force of the water into a rock or the sand. Are you hurt? Are you stranded? Do you wonder why this is happening to you? Or do you take it in stride, pick yourself up, and catch the next wave to safety? You don’t know if the next wave is a vehicle to safety or transport to further danger. You go anyway. And then you may be washed to shore to be left to dry out and possibly . . . most likely . . . to die. But your life is not over, because if you have a shell or a soul, someone comes to pick you up and shelter you and revere you . . . to find the preciousness in you. They take you home.

There are always moments of preciousness. The joy is found in the recognition of these moments.

It is odd that as I sit here, listening to the crash and splash of the tide coming in, absorbing the faint warmth of the sun breaking through the cloud cover, that I begin to feel at peace with my complete aloneness even though people continue to maneuver around me . . . some jogging, some walking, couples walking hand-in-hand, and parents helping children search for the souls of beached shells. It is odd that with all this life going on around me, I feel I am the sole survivor sitting on a lone beach . . . the only one to hear the sound of the waves grow louder as the tide comes in . . . and feel a faint breeze whisper across my face.

I breathe the salty air . . . that familiar scent that takes me back to memories of many summers gone by, but can paradoxically keep me in the present moment. I feel I’m floating in a bubble, simply an observer of all that God has created. The bubble is timeless.

It’s time to catch the bus from Del Coronado Hotel back to the Ferry Landing, and on to my hotel. How I would love to stay here longer, allow nature’s rhythms to cleanse my soul . . . to do so completely . . . to remove the barnacles, and smooth my rough edges to reveal the inherent beauty.

Now, on Mother’s Day 2004, I reflect. I celebrate who Mom was to me; grateful, as I discover my own talents.

This story originally appeared in Write from the Inside: The Ezine in May 2004. It has since been published in my first book, Write from the Inside: Dig for Treasures, Discover Yourself, Leave a Legacy, copyright 2006.