Memories of Mom

Memories of Mom

Mom, we love you!

While reflecting on what I should write, it only occurred to me after several drafts: what extraordinary character qualities Mom posses and with which she carried herself.  She was always, "just Mom" to me; but indeed she was a special kind of person.  In reflection I cannot recall Mom complaining, ever speaking a cross word and I certainly never heard her cuss, nor do I think she ever expressed out loud a spiteful thought about another person.  I know she was injured, slighted and hurt - like we all are; but what solid character to hold one's tongue and proceed through all of life's turmoil with serenity.  Serenity to the end.  Yes she was just Mom, but was unlike any other which any us have ever known. Mom, we love you.

Mom, we love you not for what you did, but for who you are. But let it be said:

Mom, You did all things well.

Speaking of doing things well: let me take time to speak to what we know and what should be said aloud; Sister Sheri, you have done all things well as well.  Sheri, Thank you for your season of care for Mom.  Know that each one of us in the family is grateful to you.

We gather and stand before mystery. Mysteries of life; and may I add, we now face the mysteries of death - as a part of life.

Mom, you did all things well; 

Mom you did all things well and did things wisely.

Mom, maybe I didn't always see you as wise, and maybe not everything you did was full of wisdom; but I see it now, Mom you were a wise woman.

On the morning of your passing, I was moved to pick up and read the Book of Ecclesiastes; I wondered if I would find comfort in a book that paradoxically really offers no comfort.  The theme of Ecclesiastes is that all of our life's efforts amount to chasing the wind.  No matter who we are and what we accomplish, for good or for ill, death comes to us all. Mom, You had the wisdom of Solomon - you understood that the ultimate joy comes from small and simple things.  You found comfort in ordinary moments.  You were a wise woman.

These ancient words I read in Ecclesiastes that morning of your passing, were the words of the "Teacher", the wise and ancient King of Israel, King Solomon.  It was a couple days later that I learned that the thoughts expressed in Ecclesiastes were words that resonated with you.  You had chosen the words of Ecclesiastes as words that you wanted us to hear when we gathered to remember you.  I words I read that lonely morning: 

There is a time for everything

and a season for everything under heaven

A time to be born

and a time to die

A time to weep

and a time to laugh,

A time to mourn

and a time to dance.

Seasons 

Mom, you knew this wisdom of the seasons.

Mom, you knew there would come a time for every one of these seasons under heaven.

Mom, you proclaimed that your years under heaven were full and were good and that in its own season you would welcome their passage after a good and full life under the sun.  To everything there is a season.  This you knew.

We all heard your words telling of life's seasons. 

You spoke of your readiness for a new season, and of your comfort in knowing that the old season was to fade into an eternal season in the presence of our Creator and our Savior Jesus.

Now we have come together into a season of mourning, for now is a time for us to weep and a time for us to mourn.  And while this sad season is upon us, let us take this time of mourning to remember you in brighter seasons when you were with us.

The Beginning - In the Garden.

I'd like to start at the beginning, I mean the very beginning.

When God created humankind; where did he put man and woman?  God put them in paradise, in the middle of his creation, God put them in a garden.

Mom, you were at home in God's Creation, the Garden was your spiritual home.

Mom, you did all things well. 

Mom you enjoyed and worked your gardens as the Lord meant it to be. 

Mom, you were wise to enjoy and find meaning in the simplest of things and in your wisdom you understood the beauty of the creation in which we were placed.

Mom had gardens, simple and pleasant gardens wherever we lived.  Mom helped me plant my first garden in Yuba City,  we planted an onion.  And when it came time to move away in 1962, I recall my greatest worry as a 4 1/2 year old - what about my onion still in the garden?  It was such a good onion that I left behind in that garden on Stafford Drive.  I've had a fondness for onions ever since Mom and I planted that lonely allium and left it behind, an orphan in the garden.

Mom delighted in the sweet peas covering the back fence of our home in Novato and the profusion of snap dragons, holly hocks, sunflowers and other blooming things ad indelphinium.  There were daffodils and multitudes of colorful flowers surrounded the house in Madera.  To be sure there was Mom's simple enjoyment of her flowers and vegetables growing on the shores of Flathead Lake in Polson. 

When it came time to move Mom and Dad to Tumwater, Barth and I were cramming all kinds of items into our two U-Haul trucks when I noticed a flat box full of tulip bulbs sitting on the garage floor.  I said to myself, "Mom's tulips!  I can't leave these lonely bulbs behind.  I'll make sure there's going to be enough room in the back of the truck to rescue Mom's garden."  I was thinking of that onion which I sadly left behind in Yuba City. I vowed that I would not let that happen again.  I hauled those tulip bulbs down to Texas where Sue planted those tulip bulbs of Mom's.  Sue said to me, "You have to send your Mom pictures of her flowers once they bloom this spring, she'd enjoy that so much."  I sent her a picture when, in their season, they bloomed last spring in Texas.  We have Mom's tulips coming back to greet us this spring. Mom enjoyed the creation and the simple joy of a garden - just like God always intended. Mom was wise in what she choose to appreciated.  A reminder of life's Simple beauty.

Mom, you did all things well. 

But one of the things you did very well was capture the creation with your extraordinary eye for color, composition and style.  Your interest in the creation and in creating has been a continued blessing to us all.  I do not think that I'm mistaken when I say that I think every home represented among our greater family has the blessing of your talent and an element of beauty from one of your artistic creations proudly displayed within their walls.  Truly, these painting are family treasures to keep and to remind us of you and your keen eye for the creation. You will continue to grace our lives through your creation.

Family.

Mom, you did all things well. 

Yes, gardens were a delight as you raised your plants, but you excelled in raising us and maintaining our family.  There were so many everyday things you did so well that they just seemed normal.  It is not until I look back over my shoulder with the perspective of an adult and a parent that I understand what you provided.  Mom, you did the task of parenting so well, you made life seem so normal, so ordinary.  In retrospect what I see in our family was anything but ordinary in comparison to so many other families beset seeds of disharmony and bickering - as I look back, I say you accomplished something far from ordinary, I say you raised an extraordinary family. 

Mom, you prepared our dinners and we always sat around the table as a family and gave thanks to God for what we before we had meals together. 

Do not underestimate the power and the blessing that the gathering the family for a daily meal has on a child. Mom did not.

Mom, you did that well.

I was once asked, "How were you raised?"  I was quick and proud to reply, "Gloriously."  Mom, you gave us the gift of freedom, self-discovery, a chance to roam and expand our world and explore our identities. Mom, you enabled my boyhood days to soar with untethered imagination and rich experiences that are seldom, if ever known to today's kids.  Our lives were founded on a solid family and unclipped wings (within reason).  

Yes, you did "The Mom Job" well - yes, so very well.  

Thank you Mom.

Mom, your were wise in the way you nurtured each of us.  Mom, you knew the power and the wisdom of unselfishly tending to each of our delights and individual interests.  One of my favorite memories is the memory of a shared passion.  On the days when I stayed home from school because I was ill, you would take down from the top of the closet shelf those wonderful boxes filled with sea shell that you had collected.  Together, we would thumb through the illustrated books of sea shells and match the pictures to the specimen we'd pulled from the box.  You loved the shells for the intrinsic beauty of their ornate sculpting; I wanted to identify genus and species and know the science.  We came at the shell collection from different angles, but we shared a passion on those sick days.  Those sick days of delving into science and beauty are good and powerful memories.  It was Good Medicine.

As you gathered your young brood around you, as yet unskilled in reading, you would take the time to read to us kids.  When I had an opportunity to select a book from the library for you to read to me; for me, it was always about Reptiles - Reptiles and Amphibians.  We read every single book from the school and city library on reptiles and amphibians.  As I listened by your side to accounts of Komodo Dragons, Gila Monsters, cobras and scarlet kings snakes, my imagination soared and my wonder for the creation was kindled.

Do not underestimate the power of a vision and a shared passion has on a child.  Mom did not.

Yes, Mom; you did that that well.  

You did that well for each of us. 

While I listened in fascination and learned all I could about the world's reptiles and amphibians; you once told me that your reading to me brain-washed you so that you grew to tolerate and understand the reptiles - up to a point.  Taht point was croseed when one of my smaller gopher snakes disappeared from his cage in my bedroom, only to be discovered by you days later in the linen closet as you reached for a fresh set of sheets; there came a new rule:  Snakes - Yes, but Snakes inside - No.  They have to be kept outside.

All creatures bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small; our dear Mom loved them all.  You had a soft spot for the creatures of the creations (even snakes).  Mom, you made sure that we had pets - and I wonder now if they were for us or for you?  No matter, all creatures great and small, yes Mom, you loved them all.  We had mice, hamsters, guinea pigs (yes, lots and lots of guinea pigs), dogs and lizards and the Suneson signature pet, the Desert Tortoise.  All we Sunesons regaled in the distinction of having a clatter of tortoises ranging in our back yard.  

Mom, you did so many things.  You kept the house in immaculate order, your served family meals, made us after-school snacks and made custom birthday cakes.  You sewed our extravagant Halloween costumes and helped us make papier-mâché masks and crafted our holiday decorations for the home.  Those were the priorities and I say that you did all of those things well.

Beneath the mundane, day-to-day tasks which you accomplished with joy as a wonderful wife and mother, you went about life with a streak of whimsy and a mischievous sense of humor. Which was a times evident to us, but perhaps too often hidden.

After I'd grown, married and had my own house, you came to visit us, and I had left my Halloween giant spider web and big black spider suspended over my porch weeks after the last trick-or-treating had rung my doorbell.  Actually, it was so long after Halloween that it was now Thanksgiving.  I came home from work and noticed you'd fashioned a little pilgrim's hat and placed on my Halloween spider.  Very funny Mom.  Subtle, but very clever.  You enjoyed little incongruities like that and you enjoyed the mild prank.

 

Yes, you did that well too mom.

Mom could be a bit of a trickster.

 ***

As young parents, Sue and I had settled around the dining room table after the delicate dance of getting the young 'uns to bed and tucked in for what we hoped would be a multi-hour sleep for the two of us a little later.  At last, our evening was quiet.

Thud!  The sound parents of toddlers fear to hear.

We scrambled out of our seats and raced upstairs to Grant's room, the source of the disquieting thump.  We rounded the corner to look into his crib.  

It was empty.

There was little Grant standing on the floor, holding his arms up in exaltation,  his eyes beaming with mirthful accomplishment.  We looked down at him, he was smiling broadly and obviously unhurt from his topple out of his crib.  He had mounted the bars that once held him in and he had scaled the securely latched side panel, up he went, up and over!  

"I did a trick!"  He boasted to his parents as he stood free of constraints on his bedroom floor.  "I did a trick!"

Sue and I looked at one another, it was obvious that we were in a new season.  Our son was no longer to be held in a baby's crib; it was a new season, a season for a big-boy bed.

Mom you were wise.  

For you knew that for everything there is a season under heaven.  

Mom you spoke of not wanting to live forever, for you knew of the promise of our Creator.  Mom lived in the hope and strong confidence of the resurrection.  A resurrection from this fallen world, a world far from the ideals of that original garden where God had first placed us.  A place, a garden where we were created to be, way back in the beginning.

Mom, you were wise to not chase the wind, to seek fleeting wealth or establish monuments; rather you sought what was pure and what was good.  The simple pleasures to be found during this season of life under heaven.  

Mom, you did that oh so very well.

Mom, in your wisdom you understood that we all inhabit a fallen world.  

You were not deluded nor were you fooled by reality of this world.

A world where the ground that was meant to be a garden is now a ground infested thorns and cursed with briers.

A world where the bright, inquisitive mind and artistic eyes are dimmed and set in wicked shadow by the cruelness of dementia.

A world where a kind heart brimming with love of others grows weary with years.

I say life is mystery.  The writer of Ecclesiastes advises:

As you do not know the path of the wind,

or how the body is formed in a mother's womb,

so you cannot understand the works of God,

the maker of all things.

If that is the reality - I'm not sure I find comfort in that truth. 

But I do find comfort in a revelation of life's mystery and what Mom has left with us.  Mom, I know that when you told us that you were not going to be here forever, you were preparing us for this season of mourning.

You were wise.  

You saw no benefit to clinging to a life that was descending ever deeper with the affliction of a shadowed mind.

You were wise.  

You saw no benefit to more days of probing, scraping, cutting and skin biopsies.

You lived in the promise of the resurrection, you claimed that promise and I think you summoned your mischievous side to claim Jesus' promise. 

I am open to mystery.

Here is the mystery -

Is this not poetic?  

Is this not whimsical?  

Was is it not accomplished with an artistic flair?

You celebrated Dad's 89th birthday with family all around and a good meal.

It had been a good day.  

It had been a good life, it had been a full life.  

You turned to your bed for the night.

Oh Mom. 

You gave a glimpse of life's mystery.  I believe you had little twist for us. 

I think I can hear you saying to us from glory, "I did a trick!

Oh Mom, yes you did a trick. 

You broke free of those mortal bars of transitive flesh that were constraining your spirit.

You broke out of this mortal box that held you, and you scampered up and over into paradise with our Lord and our God.

You gave the slip to that cruel thief of memories that was stalking you.

You would give no more time to flesh beset with cancer.

You did a trick. 

You did a trick on your own terms.  How wonderful.

And now you are free.  Now you are in a season of eternal peace and you are free to tend the Garden of Creation.  Free from shadow, pain, affliction and loss.

I am confident that you have landed in a place where:

When we've been there ten thousand years

Bright shining as the sun,

We've no less days to sing God's praise

Than when we first begun.

Mom, you were ready.  

You told us you were ready.

Your last day of your season of life in the flesh was a day gathered with family. 

You enjoyed the party, the food and the fellowship.

You went to bed and surprised us with your sudden disappearance.

Maybe we should not have been surprised.

It is a mystery as to whether Mom in her own way and maybe her own time, chose to leave us when she did.  

When she slipped away from us -

There was no hospitalization.

There were no strangers poking you or invasive efforts made to ease your discomfort.

There were no reasons for your family to be concerned, much less filled with worry.

No.  If this is the way you chose to leave us - as sad as it is for us left behind;

May I say; Mom, you did it well.

Back to life, and to us the living; let say to one another as we think of our beloved mother, grandmother and wife:

Mom, The best trick is to live well and live wisely, enjoying the simple pleasures. 

Echoing the words of Ecclesiastes, let us eat, let us drink and let us enjoy the pleasure of one another's company while God gives us life under the heaven.

Yes - You did that so well.

Vaya con Dios, Mom. 

Go with God.

We love you!

It was a pleasure and a joy to share the world with one so gracious, so good and so loving as you.

Mary Lucinda Suneson

July 12, 1932 to February 9, 2020