My mom died

 My mom died.

She was old, and she had been in failing health since she had a stroke on Christmas Day 2019.  It was not completely unexpected.

But still. 

My mom died.  Ma-ma.  Mommy.  Mom.  Or when I was exasperated, Mother!

She was my best friend, and at times, especially during puberty, my worst enemy.  She knew me better than anyone else in the world, knew all my faults and all my gifts, put up with my bad tempers and complaints, and loved and supported me anyway, more than any other earthly person ever has or ever will.

She died in early May, just at the end of mayflower season in the Maritimes and crocus season in the prairies.  She loved looking for those first beautiful signs of spring.  She died in the middle of a peaceful, starry-skied night, after a warm, sunny spring day and a brilliant sunset.  It was a day she would have loved, and most likely would have spent out in her garden if she could have.

My mom was born and raised in Montreal, and boy, did she love to talk about Montreal and her youth.  But moving to southwest Saskatchewan at the age of 34 when my father was called to be the minister at a two-point charge in Shaunavon and Swift Current, she fell deeply and passionately in love with the prairies, and for the rest of her life, the prairie was forever her spiritual home. 

Mom was proud of her family’s Baptist heritage as ministers and educators in Jamaica, and she continued that tradition by marrying a Baptist minister.  They moved all around western Canada, living in hamlets, small towns, and cities, finally retiring to the Maritimes to be near their first grandchildren.  Although we moved a lot, and it was hard to put down roots, Mom fully immersed herself in each place we lived, and treated each home as if it was our permanent home.  When we lived on a farm in southwestern Manitoba, my mom, the city girl, learned how to milk cows, muck out stalls, use a cream separator, and tend to chickens, pigs, a horse, cats, and a dog, and she did it with enthusiasm and joy.  

She was a strict mom, not in the sense that she was mean or angry, but she had rules and expectations.  No cats in the house (although we snuck them in occasionally).  On the farm, the dog was only allowed in the house at night so he wouldn’t go roaming with other rogue farm dogs, but was only allowed in the mudroom – and definitely NOT on the carpet.  Once we moved away from the farm, the dog was indoors more, and often lay in the hallway with the very tip of his nose on the living room carpet.  She had very definite kitchen principles.  The kitchen should be a large, welcoming, open space with an efficient working triangle (fridge-kitchen-stove), and things should be stored where they were used.  She and Dad renovated kitchens to suit her preferences, and she designed her own kitchens in the houses that they built together.  Mom always told us to “remember who you are.”  She didn’t say it in a sense of concern over her reputation or my dad’s, but in the sense of being true to ourselves, living up to our own personal values and expectations, and remembering that we are children of God. 

Mom lived her life on her own terms.  In the days when ministers’ wives were expected to be unpaid church labourers alongside their meagrely paid husbands, she was, in many ways, a traditional minister’s wife.  But always quietly independent, she remodelled every manse we ever lived in, and worked outside the home before it was socially acceptable for most wives and mothers to do so.  Her favourite job was working as a school librarian in several places across Canada, and she treasured the opportunities that arose for connecting with the students, especially those who were marginalized.  She had some health issues throughout her life, rheumatic fever as a child and multiple bouts with cancer, but never let them overcome her or define her.  She met her challenges with determination, humour, and an unwavering faith that God was in control.

Birds and flowers were two of Mom’s favourite things.  She spent hours working in her gardens, learning to adapt to different climates and soils. She loved nature, and found wonder in every aspect of it, from the tiny ants in the soil to the vast prairie skies and the flickering northern lights.  From her, we learned to look for the beauty in the small things in life: the insects in the gardens, the wildflowers hiding in the woods, the way the clouds were striated in the sky, and the countless colour variations of the wild lupins.  She was a gifted seamstress and needlewoman, sewing wedding dresses, clothing for her grandchildren, tailored suits, and hundreds of baby quilts which have been sent to babies around the world, as well as crocheting tea cozies, embroidering Christmas ornaments, and countless other crafts, some of which she sold in many of the places she lived.

My mom’s biggest gifts were compassion and hospitality.  Growing up, we frequently had guests for Sunday dinners, many of whom were unexpected.  Her homes were places where family, friends, church folk, and strangers were always warmly welcomed.  She had this uncanny sense of being able to reach out to perfect strangers.  When we lived in rural Manitoba, she encountered a young Quebecois couple struggling to communicate in English.  She discovered that they were on their honeymoon, hitchhiking across Canada, and wanted to catch a bus to Edmonton, which was not due to leave until late that night.  Without hesitation, she invited them to our house, showed them the laundry room, and pointed them to the shower, and they shared a meal with us before catching the bus.  For many years, we received Christmas cards from them.  My brother recalled that when our Dad was in hospital in Halifax after back surgery and was not doing well, they were returning to the hospital after supper to stay with Dad.  They met a woman and her daughter at the elevator, perfect strangers.  The woman told them that a family member was on their deathbed, and they would be keeping vigil.  Mom stepped up to the woman and had a quiet conversation with her.  Mom opened her arms, and the woman stepped into them and cried on her shoulder, and after a few minutes, they went their separate ways. My mom loved being “Nana” to my kids and my nephews.  In Sackville, she also became “Nana” to countless university Chapel students and football players.  She would walk into the room, with a warm smile on her face, and say “Hi, I’m Nana.  Who are you?” and before you know it, she would be in deep conversation with whoever was there.  That was my mom.

The last 2½ years of my mom’s life were not easy.  She lost the ability to do everything she enjoyed, and COVID ensured that we were not able to spend a lot of time with her in the nursing home.  The day before she died, I spent most of the day with her, singing her favourite hymns, reading to her from the Bible and from some poetry and gardening journals she had with her.  I thanked her for everything I had learned from her.  I hugged her.

This photo of my mom is one of my favourites.  I know she would be aghast that her hair is all askew.  It was taken after we took a drive along the Petitcodiac River, stopping at a favourite place of mine, which I wrote about here.  It was autumn, and a little bit cool.  But still, my mom walked around the church yard, gathering a bunch of little seed heads and weeds that no one else would even notice, to make her own little bouquet, and then sat down on the large rock to rest with her little bouquet in her hand. That was my mom, finding beauty in the little things, and the ordinary moments, and offering the prayer that she offered so often, Deo gratias.