In addition to Thanksgiving Day, last Thursday was also the 40th anniversary of the death of my Mom. She was only 53 when she passed away. For most of those years, I have a standard line that I use to describe her to people who never met her: “You were never loved until you were loved by my Mom and you were never hurt until you were hurt by my Mom.” I then explain how she may have been diagnosed today with bi-polar disorder or something else that might explain her significant mood swings.

When Mom was in her harsh state, her words were incredibly cutting. She would justify her verbal attacks with the phrase “the truth will stand when this world is on fire.” She would stare a hole through me with her disapproval when I would use a word she didn't like. I also have memories of her “spare the rod and spoil the child” discipline with switches, belts and her roundhouse left hand to the face. Today, it’s called physical abuse.

I’ve spent a lot of the past 40 years remembering the harsh side of my Mom and speaking of that most often.

On Thanksgiving day, I disappeared to a storage closet in our house and started digging through old family pictures. I came across several dozen pictures of my mom — many of them with me. I found pictures of her before I was born. A picture of her holding me as a baby. An awkward mid-1970’s family picture for the church directory.

As I looked at the pictures, I was overtaken with a profound sense of sadness and grief. Honestly, I was surprised. I don’t shed many tears for her any more. Without thinking, I uttered these words, “She wasn’t all bad.”

And then it hit me. For years, I’ve told the story of how harsh my Mom was toward me and how it shaped me and harmed me. Sitting in the storage closet, I had an epiphany—it’s been easier for me to be a victim of her harshness than to remember her whole story and the parts of her that I miss. And on the 40th anniversary of my Mom’s death, I missed her deeply. Like, sobbing and rocking back and forth deeply.

Like most of us, my Mom was a paradox.

The hand that would slap me was the same hand that swaddled me as a baby and also cooked my favorite meals and provided a clean and beautiful home to grow up in.
The lips that would rage against me were the same ones that would kiss me on the forehead and tell me “Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite”.
The eyes that would scornfully glare at me with disgust were the same eyes that lit up when I spoke at my high school graduation.

G.K. Chesterton is said to have described the human condition as all of us being “glorious ruins”. I’ve focused far too hard and too long on the “ruin” part of my Mother. This year, I remembered the “glorious” side of her as well. And remembering the whole of her life story caused me to grieve in a way that was honest about the harm done to me and embraced the kindness that my Mother offered me, through her own brokenness. I have found myself wanting to tell other stories about her this past week—stories that I want my family to know about her. There was a beautiful side that must be told and for me to tell it requires me to embrace my sadness in a new way.

I want to do that.

As I dug deeper into the box filled with memories, I found a poem that my friend, Benny Cooper, wrote on the day of my Mom’s death in 1979. Benny had joined us for Thanksgiving dinner six days earlier that year and hit it off with my Mom. His words—40 years old—filled my heart and mind with the glorious side of Mom that I want to talk about more in the days ahead:

YOUR HAND
You hand touched many
It was a hand to the lonely, poor and hungry.
It was a hand of love, warmth, compassion and understanding.

Many reached out to touch your hand
The needy, destitute and unloved
When they grasped it
They found life, joy and tenderness.

Your hand is gone now
Its’ days of service are now over
Now your hand touches the celestial hand
Your hand touches God's.

Grieving My Mother - 40 Years Later