Mom's eulogy

Abraham Lincoln once said, "All that I am, or ever hope to be, I owe to my angel mother." 

We all know that Abraham Lincoln grew up to be President of the United States.  And while neither my sister nor I will ever occupy the White House, it is true that much of what we are, we owe to our mother.

Mom, obviously, carried us in her womb.  She made sure that we got to church and Sunday School.  Because of that, I carried my faith over to my adult life and made sure that my son also got to church and Sunday School.  She said bedtime prayers with me.  Because of that, I ended up saying bedtime prayers with my son.  And although family lore says that it was my dad who taught me how to read, it was my mother who taught me how to enjoy books.  She once told me that when she was potty-training me, I'd sit there as long as she'd read to me.  She was the one that introduced me to the public library and got me a library card.  And because of that, I grew up to be a librarian and a writer. 

Mom was born and grew up in a small town in Kentucky.  Like most women of her time, she wound up getting married, having kids, and putting her time and energy into her family.  I'm sure she wanted better for Renee and me.  More than that, though, she wanted us to grow up to be good people.  I think she succeeded.  My sister and I both married decent men.  My sister partners with her husband in business, much as our parents did when they ran a preschool.  I used my love of books, which she gave to me, and had a career as a librarian.  Now I proof legal transcripts, write a blog, and plan to publish fiction.  

Mom was always proud of her grandchildren, and she had reason to be.  One grew up to work in the mental health field, connecting people who need help with the resources they need.  The other is training for job skills and will eventually find his niche after he leaves school. 

When Daddy was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig's disease, Mom put in every ounce of time and energy into caring for him.  Our Uncle Jerry said that she did everything she could for him, "and then some".  I didn't appreciate the stress on her at the time, and perhaps I still don't, since I have not experienced caring for someone who is terminally ill.  I do know that she took the "in sickness and in health, till death do us part" section of the marriage vows seriously.  When Daddy died, she lost the person that she considered her best friend. 

When my sister called and said that Mom had died, one of the things that she said was, "we loved her".  My sister, in particular, absorbed the lessons my mother taught while caring for our father.  My sister was the one who made sure that Mom got the care she needed.  She advocated for her.  And she made the agonizing decision to let nature take its course when it was time. 

From the time I left home in August of 1981 to go to college, I was never home for more than a few months at a time.  But one thing I could always count on was that I could pick up the phone and talk to my mother about what was going on in my life.  I could share with her about school and work problems, I could complain to her about hating to clean house and do chores, I could share with her about Matthew's latest accomplishments and escapades, I could tell her about the everyday stuff going on.  And I could listen to her soft chuckle on the other end of the phone.  When my mother's health started to deteriorate, one thing I could no longer do was talk to her on the phone.  That will be the thing I miss the most, having her to share my life with.

Some time ago, my mother sent me a copy of Leann Rimes' album, "I Hope You Dance".  She enjoyed the title song and said that it communicated what she wanted for my sister and me.  She wanted us to "dance".  She wanted us to live. 

Both my sister and I agree that the best way we can honor our mother's memory is to remember who she was and to remember the good things that we learned from her.  I think that is the best way that we can "dance". 

We loved you, Thelma Laverne Chitwood Sergent, Mom, Nana, born December 18, 1937; died November 4, 2017. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.