Brenda's Bicycles

This is a speech that I gave at my dear Mother’s funeral services today. I just wanted to share it with everyone. I had an incredible experience in synchronicity and listening to spirit this evening as I drove home. I will share that experience it in a post tomorrow. Tonight, I simply need to rest as the first phase of this amazing two weeks now winds to a close. The next phase has already begun. Tonight’s experience has me engulfed in a state of deep soul searching, incredible love, and rich gratitude. (To be continued tomorrow.)

 

Memories of Mom

 

As I retired to my bed on Saturday night, I had no idea what words I would speak as I attempt to share my memories of my dear mother here today. At 1:30 am on Sunday morning I awoke unexpectedly. Rather than fighting the experience—trying to go back to sleep—I instead began to use my sleepless hours to meditate on “What exactly will I say? What are my favorite memories about Mom?”

 

As the ideas began flowing, I quickly climbed out of bed, picked up my laptop, and let my fingers effortlessly type away. Just hours earlier, I had finished typing up my feelings and insights regarding my experiences with mom during her final 17 hours of mortal existence.  I had been tired and exhausted when I went to bed—but now, as my fingers rattled around on the keyboard, I felt a renewed energy, reminding me of the many things I desired to express.

 

Time after time I climbed back into bed thinking “OK, I have typed enough … I can finish this tomorrow” Two minutes later, more ideas would begin to flow, and I was back on the floor, again typing away in the dark. Three hours later, I finally went back to bed.

 

So many times I have heard others say “I never want to remember my mother (or my dad) in this difficult state of old age and decline. I want to remember how they were in their prime years, when they had their faculties and were able to function normally.”

 

I used to be one of those people myself, using my discomfort as an excuse for why I didn’t visit mom as much. I rationalized that “She won’t really know who I am,” or “She will not remember I was here anyway—not even five minutes after I leave”.

 

It was not enjoyable watching Mom and Dad decline with age, and I longed for a return to the days when they were seemingly whole – when they were independent, and could communicate, remember, talk, think, etc…

 

It was not until Dad passed away that I began to go visit Mom more frequently, usually several times per week. At first I used self-imposed guilt to force myself to go see her, but soon that guilt dissipated and was replaced with a slight desire, a desire that gradually grew into loving anticipation of my next visit.

 

As I have frequently visited Mom over the last three years, I have gained an entirely new perspective, a new way of seeing life and love, a perspective for which I will be forever grateful.

 

Yes, I have many fond memories of my mother from childhood and teenage years, but those memories fade into nothingness when compared with my beautiful memories of the last few years.

 

But before I share these recent memories and experiences, let me spend a few minutes sharing a few experiences from my early days.

 

My first memories of Mom are of the loving way in which she cared for me as a toddler. Even when I misbehaved and definitely needed a little discipline, her gentle loving touch was always evident. Some of my fondest childhood memories are the simple ones such as hugging my mommy tightly and telling her how much I loved her.

 

Mom was one of those people that you can’t stand to disappoint. If I misbehaved or did something to hurt her, the sadness in her eyes was all that was required to get me to want to change—to please her, and to never hurt her again.

 

Our home was always clean and organized. I can never remember a time when I felt any type of basic want or feeling of neglect. Even though we were not rich in monetary terms, we were abundantly wealthy in the things that mattered. We always had food on our table, and a warm comfortable place to sleep. Most importantly of all, I always felt safe, secure, and loved. Being the youngest child, perhaps I was also a little spoiled as well.

 

Mom set a beautiful example of service, both in the way she cared for her family, and in the devotion she showed through her service to others. She tirelessly served in numerous church callings over the years, and unselfishly cooked meals, did the shopping, and conducted regular family home evenings.

 

But the service I remember most is the service that Mom provided to me. I remember the many times she cared for me and nursed me back to health when I was sick. Mom taught me how to play the piano, a talent for which I am still eternally grateful. She was patient and forgiving, not even getting mad at me when I drilled holes in the wooden top of her old treadle-operated Singer Sewing Machine.

 

I was an ambitious child. At age nine, I immersed myself in a contest to sell the most Scout-o-Rama tickets in our city. For weeks, I remember my dear sweet mother patiently driving me around in her car, from one street corner to the next, while I knocked on door after door after door.

 

On another occasion, also around nine years old, I got myself in way over my head when I contracted to clear the weeds in a neighbor’s vacant lot for the grand total of $6.00. After digging weeds for what felt like days, I was making little, if any, noticeable progress. I was ready to give up and throw in the towel, but my mother would have none of that. In an incredible act of love, she organized the entire family to spend an evening with me, helping me to complete the difficult task. She took what would have been a failure on my part, and turned it into a wonderful teaching moment, teaching me the joy of togetherness and in completing something that I had committed to.

 

Mom was a teacher of how to live your life, teaching not so much through words, but by personal example. She served others in so many ways, teaching these concepts of service to her children. Mom walked the walk, living her life in the way that made you simply want to follow in her footsteps. There was no coercion—just pure unconditional love.

 

 

But I didn’t learn my real lessons about love from watching Mom in my early years. I learned my real lessons from serving her in her later years.

 

I remember the incredible bonds of love we shared when I was a young child, but I also remember pulling away and asserting my independence, at the same time building walls around my heart. I had my own painful secrets and I withdrew behind my walls to keep my secrets safe.

 

As the family grew older and everyone moved in different directions, Mom tirelessly communicated week-after-week by sending love to her family through detailed typewritten letters, keeping everyone informed about the changing events in each other’s lives. Just last year, I spent countless hours scanning copies of her old family letters onto my computer, attempting to preserve the many years of service that she put into that loving communication.

 

In November of 1996, I approached Mom and Dad with a feeling of sheer terror. In the process of announcing major transitional changes in my own life to the rest of my family, I was terrified that Mom and Dad would reject me and possibly even disown me. I so desperately desired their love and approval, but could no longer hide my deep internal struggles.

 

On the day I brought them my long detailed letter, outlining the changes I was about to go through in my life, I agonized over the thought of their possible reactions. After swallowing the huge lump in my throat and reading that difficult letter to my parents, I then shared with them a story about a friend of mine who had shared similar life struggles with her own mother and father. My friend’s mother had embraced her with unconditional love, while my friend’s father had completely rejected her.

 

I remember vividly the love that Mom shared with me when I posed this situation to her. After hearing this story, with pure innocence in her heart and eyes, my dear sweet mother looked me lovingly—right in the eyes—and calmly made the statement, “I want to be like your friends mother. I want to embrace you with unconditional love.”

 

It was not many months later that Mom began her physical decline. I no longer focus on the details of her gradual and steady decline in health. Yes I witnessed every step, and wished Mom did not have to pass through it. But in the last few years I have begun to look for the hidden treasures that were buried just below the surface of her seeming disabilities. Where fear and discomfort once resided, I now began to find beauty in the inner journey that unfolded as I learned to love my mother from a whole new perspective.

 

I began to realize that my visits weren’t about how I was helping mom. Yes, I hoped that my visits impacted her in a positive way, and helped her to have more peace and comfort in her final years.

 

But I began to realize that my visits were really not about what I was giving, but what I was receiving. With each visit, I was learning, I was shifting and growing, as I altered my own way of seeing the world. As I shifted my own way of perceiving physical limitations brought on by age, I began to realize that I was gaining far more from my visits than I could ever give. In fact, I wasn’t actually giving anything away at all—I was literally receiving everything that I tried to give away.

 

No, I won’t remember the details of her physical decline.

 

Instead, I will remember the incredible lessons I learned in how to connect with people at a level deeper than words—how to connect with the soul even when words seem to be useless, futile, without effect. Even though we were unable to carry on even a simple basic conversation, I learned to connect with my mom in a much deeper way. Always holding her hands in mine, we shared eye contact, “I love you” statements, and simply communed with each other’s soul.

 

I won’t remember the details of Mom’s physical decline.

 

Instead, I will remember the lessons in unconditional love as I learned to see mom for who she really is—a divine daughter of God, still perfect and whole in every way. Her body may have appeared to be fragile, but I grew to recognize that her limitations in no way placed boundaries on the beautiful soul that she still is.

 

I will also remember how I was able to connect with the beauty of the other residents in the same way, learning to look past the discomfort of their physical and social appearances, learning to see divinity in their very being. At first, these other elderly residents made me uncomfortable. I tried to avoid interacting with them when I visited with Mom. But gradually, my shell cracked open, and I began to recognize the same beauty in their souls. During these last three years, I have grown quite attached to many of these other elderly residents, and I already miss seeing their bright child-like faces.

 

No, I won’t remember the details of Mom’s physical decline.

 

Instead, I will remember the childlike innocence of what it means to forget the past and to live in the grandeur of each present moment. Mom carried no stories of the past, the pain, the rationalizations, the judgments, etc…, and she did not focus on fears and anxieties about the future. In her purifying years, she simply lived in each and every moment, expressing the emotions of how she felt, with no false pretense or invisible masks of pain.

 

No, I won’t remember the details of Mom’s physical decline.

 

Instead, I will remember the closeness and connection that has grown between my siblings and I as we have worked together to care for Mom’s needs. The fact that Mom was still here caused us to stay in touch more than we might have. Before my life changes, it was I who kept the walls up. It was I who hid my true self, not wanting another living soul to know of the pain through which I was passing. After my transition, after becoming my authentic self, I felt very isolated from the family I so desperately wanted to love. I felt like the odd-man-out, wondering if I would ever fit in, wondering if I would ever belong—and was inclined many times to simply disappear—going off to live my own separate life. Because of Mom, because of her path of dependency, I have developed a continuously growing bond with Jeanene, Carol, and Neil that may have never happened otherwise.

 

I won’t remember the details of Mom’s physical decline.

 

Instead, I will remember the songs we have sung together on so many beautiful occasions. Instead of trying to communicate with mom using words, I loved to sing fun silly songs together with her—songs with familiar tunes and familiar words. Over time I developed a series of favorites that I would always sing with Mom each time we visited. On repeated occasions, I watched her face light up with delight as I began to sing. Once she recognized the song, she often joined in and sang along with me. Prior to the song, she often seemed to be lost in the pain of realizing she didn’t remember anything. As the words came flowing off her tongue, her eyes would light up with excitement at the realization that she did remember something—she actually knew both the melody and the words. Even if it was just for brief moments, she often returned to a youthful, giggling energy. Words of surprise often surfaced “How did I know that?” etc…

 

My favorite recent memory of Mom is from a visit in December of 2008, just a few weeks before Christmas. Mom was particularly lucid during that visit. For more than an hour, we giggled together, and sang one Christmas Carol after another. The beauty of that memory will forever be implanted in my heart. Hannah, another of the dear sweet residents, sat near us and repeatedly interrupted with a huge sense of excitement, “You should get a video camera and record this. What a fun memory this would be.” How I wish that I did have a video camera, but even without the camera, the memory will be forever engrained in my soul.

 

During that beautiful afternoon together, I shared with her in a more lucid moment, “I love you mom. I want you to know that it is OK for you to be free, to go home to be with Dad. We will miss you but we will all be fine. Please don’t stay here for us. I want you to be free again.”

 

As I held her hands, looked her in the eyes, and softly whispered these words to her, I had the distinct feeling that this might indeed be that last time that we would ever be able to reach that level of lucid physical interaction—a feeling that has since proven to be true.

 

No, I won’t remember the details of Mom’s physical decline.

 

As painful as these final years have appeared, I would not take any of them back. In some ways, I believe Mom knew the beautiful lessons that she was teaching to me—to all of us. Yes, I truly believe that she somehow knew that her personal sacrifice of health had a divine purpose, blessing me with hidden treasures of growth opportunities. I will be forever grateful for the treasure hunt of loving memories. As a direct result of my dear mother I have been blessed with profound experience in how to connect with others at a level deeper than words. I have broadened my ability to love others unconditionally, seeing beyond their physical masks, learning to see their divine souls. I have learned to live more in the present moment, releasing the pain of the past and the anxiety of the future. My relationship with my siblings and extended family has continued to grow, and I have learned to let my soul sing my own authentic songs.

 

During Mom’s final moments in this mortal existence, I sat cross-legged on the bed beside her, holding her hand, gently stroking her cheek with my free hand, and whispering to her how much I love her. Surrounded by complete love and peace, Mom simply stopped breathing. After a few quiet moments, when it became evident that she was letting go, I kissed her lightly on the forehead and again whispered “Goodbye, I love you Mom.”

 

As we again say our final mortal goodbye on this beautiful day, a day that would have been her 94^th birthday, I simply want to say “Thank you mom. I will forever remember the incredible lessons of love that you have taught me.”

 

© Brenda Larsen, 2009