A Tribute to my Mother

This is a picture of my mother, taken shortly before she passed away of a heart attack in March 1998. She would have been 95 today. To this day, almost 22 years after her death, I can see her face and hear her voice in my memory. Occasionally I see her in a dream.

Her name was Alice Lorraine, named for Alsace-Lorraine in France, where her father had been a U.S. soldier in World War I, years before she was born. Going by her middle name, Lorraine—we called her Mama, her siblings and their children called her Sis—was a very kind-hearted person. She cared deeply about other people; so deeply, in fact, that her empathy often led to worry, which kept her up at night. She was not an angry or aggressive person—she hated guns, war, and meanness in any form—but she wouldn’t have hesitated to kick the ass of someone who was trying to hurt one of her kids or grandkids. I don’t remember her ever saying anything racist, although we are all products of our places and our times, so having grown up in rural poverty in central Texas, she probably inherited attitudes that she no doubt tried to work past in her own way. When I studied Spanish in school, she encouraged me to practice it whenever I could with Latinx friends and classmates. And when I brought my college roommate, a Mexican-American, home to visit, she showed him her best hospitality. She showed that same hospitality to a Japanese exchange student whom I befriended (in Spanish class, no less) despite having lived through World War II. She taught me not to be afraid of intellectually challenged or disabled people and to show concern for the elderly; she always showed compassion to the weak and vulnerable. Her faith was more about how to treat others in a way that God would like than about having the right set of beliefs and doctrine. She wasn’t a feminist, but she questioned sexist standards that had no justification (like women not wearing pants in church). She loved her family and her friends, but she extended that love to strangers who she sensed needed it. She appreciated kindness from others, no matter who offered it. And despite having dropped out of high school, she used her head to distinguish fact from fiction, truth from bullshit. She loved her country but didn’t wrap herself in the U.S. flag. She expressed her patriotism by voting for the candidates whom she believed would best help the poor and the oppressed. And she loved animals, even though my father was reluctant to have any on their property.

Mama could have turned out to be a much different person because of the suffering she experienced in her childhood, but she didn’t let that early experience define her. She could have taken on what we now call middle child syndrome—she had two older brothers and two younger sisters—but instead she became the unifier that seemed to hold the siblings together through time. Only one of the five is left now. A childhood of deprivation didn’t lead her to be a greedy adult, but instead instilled in her a generous and self-sufficient attitude. By God’s grace and her own determination, she did the best with what she had and left a positive legacy, remembered lovingly by all who knew her.

The man I am today is so much like the mother I remember. I must have inherited my empathy from Mama, because like her, I feel the pain and suffering of others, and it sometimes keeps me awake. My faith and my politics are driven by a desire for justice for the poor, the oppressed, and the suffering. I, too, hate guns and violence and aggression; yet like Mama, I will kick the asses of people who refuse to wake up to their own hurtful attitudes and ways. Like Mama, I vote with my heart. I do my best to express hospitality to strangers (read “those who are different from me”) because she and I both understood that to be what God expects of us. She was pretty good at discerning truth from bullshit, and I think I am, too. And like Mama, I am more concerned with the right way to show God’s love to the world than I am with denominational doctrine, which all too often gets co-opted and corrupted by greedy and selfish leadership.

If Mama were alive today, I believe she’d be proud of who I’ve become. I know she’d love my husband because of his kind, gentle, generous, and strong nature. She’d love our two dogs. She’d be proud of the new home we recently moved into. She’d be proud of the work I do with college students, especially those with personal challenges and who come from poor backgrounds like hers. I know she’d love all the other elderly people in our church. She’d approve of the ballots I cast in elections. She’d be happy to know that I’ve become a better cook and housekeeper, that I eschew a messy house as much as she did but that I don’t obsess over it (although my husband might disagree with that statement). She would love hearing me and my husband sing in the church choir and perform duets. And she’d be happy knowing that my love is not reserved only for my own family and close friends, but also extends to strangers and even people across the globe whom I’ve never met.

God expects us to honor our parents. I believe the best way to do that is to take the best they gave us and make it even better in our own lives. Mama, you truly gave me your best when you were with us. And you are still with us because I know you are with God, and God is with us. I hope you know you are still loved, still missed, and that you continue to make a positive impression on me.