Laughter and Loss | A Eulogy for My Mom
A few people have requested the text of my eulogy for my mother, who passed away last week. I offer this blog in loving memory of my Mom for all those who could not attend her funeral.
Steven, the husband of my Mom’s granddaughter, played Amazing Grace at her graveside service.
In a cornfield bordering my childhood home, at the age of 5, I stand alone watching a late summer’s eve fade — pastel colors on the horizon slowly swallowed in deepening purple.
Having been accidentally abandoned here by my cousins in their quest to Kick the Can, I remember fear spilling over me, the texture of dark oil mixed with sparks. Even as lesser lights punched small holes in darkness -- lit porch candles, slices of flashlights, pool torch dances -- I remain paralyzed in shadows thrown from thousands of dancing hair-like tufts.
On the twilight of a backyard party, I feel lost and helpless, crying and praying at the same time. And then it comes -- just what I needed at precisely the right time. Rising above a cacophony of tree frogs, crickets, and party voices, on a night when even a whisper carried, I hear my mother laugh.
In that strange world between light and night, a twilight pierced with fireflies, I follow the laughter to our creaking front porch swing and, falling asleep in my mom’s lap, listen to the echo sweetly through my dreams.
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Just like the little boy paralyzed near a childhood cornfield, I felt helpless to eulogize my mother. I simply didn’t know where to start. In a winter’s twilight, a day before her funeral, it came to me again: Follow her laugh.
My mom’s laugh is what I will miss most.
Possessing an arsenal of punchlines, she possessed split-second timing to land them bullseye, one after the other after the other until she split your side. At the same time, she was mostly funny without even knowing it.
After leaving for college, I can’t remember a time I returned home that Mom and I didn’t share a Seriously-I-Can’t-Breathe Laugh-Attack. I could tell you thousands of stories, but this was number one on her hit parade.
My mom and dad (left) and my in-laws came to visit after the birth of our firstborn, Taylor.
Shortly after the birth of our first child, Taylor, both sets of parents came to visit.
All of the in-laws got along well, demonstrating a shared, life-changing generosity for their children. At the same time, my mom and I shared a sense of humor more than a little off center. My mother-in-law, raised in a proper military home, committed to godliness, slightly stitched her eyes at nearly all our jokes.
So after each parent hugged our firstborn, Mom and I intuitively understood a laugh attack was sure and imminent — and likely inappropriate. For us, it was like predicting the sun will rise in the east. It was just something that was bound to happen.
One day during their visit, our neighbor dropped by to see our newborn. During casual conversation, he mentioned his recent vasectomy. I looked at my mom, and I could see an upward tug of her lip, and I feared it had begun.
Wanting to change the subject, I asked him how things were going at Emmanuel Lutheran, his young family’s place of worship.
Oh, he said with great enthusiasm, I just donated my organ to the church.
Turned out, organ as in musical instrument. Following the news of his vasectomy, excuse us if my mom and I were both thinking of a surgery gone terribly awry.
With her perfect comic timing, Mom said:
That was a terribly generous thing for you to do.
Gushing up like a Yellowstone geyser, the unstoppable Belly-Laugh was set in motion. Sucking air for our oxygen-starved brains, we raced one another for the next punchline.
Did you put it in the offering plate? I managed to chortle out.
Fortunately our neighbor caught our humor and joined us in laughter.
My mother-in-law did not.
With an equal mix of perplexity, horror, and befuddlement, she stared at us like we were goldfish gasping for air out of water.
Clearly asphyxiated, my mom responded:
When they count the offering, what value do they put on a donated organ?
And then it went further downhill from there. It seemed like something that was bound to happen.
I don’t know why we do it is what we always told each other when sufficient oxygen re-entered our brains.
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The last time I saw my mom was at the wedding of our daughter, Annalyse. On July 27, 2019, at the age of 91, my mom was escorted to a seat of honor by our two sons, Taylor and Ethan.
We are so grateful for Tim and Robin for bringing Grandma from Ohio to North Carolina, and for always taking such good care of her. After arriving, Mom developed an intestinal condition that would eventually take her life. Upon her insistence, she attended the wedding on the condition she could only stay for a while. She agreed as long as she could stay for the Daddy-Daughter dance.
Together, we experienced the marriage of her youngest grandchild to her newest grandson, Jose. Certainly, my daughter was the bright red-haired princess of this magical day, and my mom was the white-haired queen. Empowered by her lifelong love for Annalyse, she reigned as matriarch with grace, love and laughter.
When I hugged Mom goodbye, I spoke of my love. I told her I couldn’t put into words how much her presence here, on this sacred day, meant to our family.
Nodding in agreement, tearing up, with her perfect comic timing, she said:
To tell you the truth, I’m kind of ticked that I don’t get to stay for cake.
Shortly before twilight fell on her granddaughter’s wedding, we might have shared a belly-laugh then, but understood her need for rest.
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The story of Grandma’s impact on Annalyse is one of a thousand stories I could tell.
The 63 years of love shared between Richard and Eve Wilkins multiplied through the lives of so many others: sons, daughters, grandsons, granddaughters, inlaws, brothers, sisters, uncles, parents, aunts, cousins, nephews, nieces, misfits, and other dear friends. Each of you here today, and so many others.
Maybe it’s not so much my Mom's laugh I will miss, but its source. Her sense of humor sprung from the story of the Gospel -- how a life poured out for the sake of others is the best kind of life each of us can live. My mom taught me that laughter springs from the messy places between what is and what should be and that love, over every laugh attack, finds a way to cross the gap.
If I could think of a life verse for my mom, it would be John 12:24:
What I’m about to tell you is true. Unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only one seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds.
Let us pray the seed Eve Wilkins planted in each of our lives will continue to multiply in the seeds of others.