I’d never written a eulogy before.
My 82-year-old mom fell on February 18, 2024. She fractured both cheeks and the C1 vertebra in her neck. Her elbow shattered so badly the surgeon said it was best not to operate. The blow to her head produced two brain bleeds.
Miraculously, she survived. After a week in ICU, she spent twenty days in a rehab hospital before fresh bleeding beneath her skull triggered a seizure requiring emergency brain surgery. Another week in ICU led to another rehab hospital. Four days into that stay, she became non-responsive. A trip to the ER revealed yet another brain bleed.
At that point, my family knew what my mom would want. No more surgeries. No more rehab. No more tests. We moved her home into hospice care. Her prognosis was less than six months. Within a week, she stopped talking, eating, and drinking. Within another week, she was gone.
As a former music pastor for twenty-six years, I’d performed funerals. But this was my mom. I didn’t want to do it. I desired my own time to grieve without being “on.” My dad’s pastor friend agreed to officiate her service. Two days before the memorial, his father unexpectedly passed away, forcing him to cancel. Since neither my dad nor I wanted a stranger to do mom’s funeral, I agreed to officiate.
At first, I was resentful. Angry. Frustrated that circumstances forced me into this position. And a grueling month-long book tour immediately followed by five weeks living out of state at my parents’ house while navigating this crisis had left me physically and emotionally exhausted. So I cried. Cursed. Vented to my wife. Prayed.
Then I sat down to prepare the service. I reflected on who my mom was and the impact she’d had on my life. Thought of her beautiful soprano voice. Her landscape oil paintings. Her chocolate-chip oatmeal cookies as big as my hand. Her unshakable faith. I remembered how she rubbed my aching knees when I was little. How she screamed when I hid under my bed then grabbed her ankle as she bent to kiss me goodnight. The time we were breathless with laughter when she read me the picture book Are You My Mother? in the doctor’s waiting room.
As I stood beside her casket sharing these memories at the memorial, something beautiful happened. My tears and laughter were cleansing. Healing. Cathartic. The act of public expression helped to ease my private pain.
Also, my deeply personal reflections somehow touched universal feelings of those in the room. It became a shared experience, helping each of us to grieve, celebrate, and reflect in our own ways. Singly, yet together. The very thing I’d tried to avoid became an instrument that brought me, and others, some of the closure we were seeking.
When life forces you into a corner, find a healthy way to express your frustration. Your anger. Your grief. Then take a deep breath and face it. Open yourself to the hard reality. Embrace it. You may find that the very thing you were running from is exactly what you need to take another step toward Becoming Yourself.
Hi, there. I hope this message finds you well.
I just looked at the date you posted this…you literally just posted this on Saturday, not even 48 hours ago.
Just over 24 hours ago, I got called out to my daddy’s apartment in the middle of the night. He had been found – dead, in his bed – by another family member who was living with him. He had been there for days. It still feels strange writing that, saying that to people I have had to call to share the news with…
I had not spoken with my father since last year, the day before his birthday. I realize now, so much of what I felt which led me to step back from my father’s life was misplaced. Knowing he died this way hurts; knowing he had been dead for days while I was out living my life hurts even more. The silver lining I find in all of this is that he died in bed (likely) while asleep, but I do not yet know the cause.
You see, for ten years, my father was homeless and lived on the street. During the holiday season of 2022, I got a call from a hospital in a county quite far away from where he and I lived. Someone had found him on the road there, unconscious, and taken him to the hospital. He was so out of it, the only thing he could remember was my telephone number and name. The hospital called me, and when I came to see him, he looked close to dying to me.
I took him home with me and then got him admitted to a hospital near me, where he could get better. Then, he went to a rehab home and then a nearby hotel, until I could figure out how to get him housed permanently. Eventually, I was able to find a very nice apartment for him which was affordable, near many amenities and, best of all, close to me, so I could keep an eye on him and help.
From the day I got that call to the hospital to the day he died, he never spent another night having to sleep on the street or wondering where his next meal would come from. He was only in that apartment for about a year and two months now.
Why am I posting all of this on under your blog? It is because I have been trying to figure out what to do for his service. Funds are quite limited, and I realize I will have to take a nontraditional approach to putting my daddy to rest. The thought that has been in my mind since falling asleep last night is that I could officiate my daddy’s service myself.
I could show my honor and respect for him in that way and likely initiate the healing and release I know I will need. My relationship with my daddy was a complicated one, and what I could never have anticipated is those complications would not lessen the pain I am feeling now. I thought the idea to act in this role at my daddy’s service might be sacrilegious, but I honestly cannot think of anyone else I trust or want speaking for my daddy rather than me and my sibling.
Thank you for posting this. I thought my notion might have just been crazy, but now I know it is not.
I also want to extend to you my wish that you and your family continue to receive comfort and strength during your own time of grief for your mother.
Thank you so much for reading my post and taking the time to share your story so vulnerably. I am incredibly sorry for your loss and the difficulties surrounding your father’s passing. That said, I am so glad you were able to be there for him when he needed you, and you can take comfort in knowing he was warm and safe and well fed at the end of his life. I’m sure you have a difficult road ahead and a lot of processing to do, but I believe you’ll find your way. I hope you officiating your father’s funeral will bring the same help to you that officiating my mom’s did for me. Thanks again for reaching out and all the best to you in this tough time.