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.
