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It snowed the night before the funeral and was still snowing when we arrived at the small country cemetery. Because of the deep snow, none of the vehicles in the procession could traverse the hill leading to the grave site.  The casket had to be transferred from the funeral car to a small truck and then moved up the hill. Although it was fourteen years ago, I can clearly remember walking through the blowing snow and thinking of my Mom’s life. She was on this earth for seventy-eight years and I had kept her at a distance. Only at the end of her life, when she was confined to a nursing home, did I acknowledge and return the unconditional love she always gave to me.

Mom grew up in a large God fearing family at a time when there was much hard work and few rewards. She knew the poverty of the Great Depression and the sacrifices of World War II. Life was tough.  In her family you practiced the message of Jesus through acts of generosity and kindness but few words. Those beginnings formed the simplistic and frugal manner in which she spent her life. Uneducated about worldly affairs, she performed no publicly renowned feat, sought no attraction but glorified God through her neighborly compassion and charity. While I give from my excess, Mom had no excess, thus her giving and sharing came from her basic existence. If I somehow enrich the life of one person, it is the exception, with Mom it was natural. No neighbor ever went hungry, unclothed or suffered alone. She wouldn’t (and couldn’t) send a check; instead, she took a crock of soup next door. It took little to make her happy; Mom never sought any of the earthly attachments I hold so dear. She never drove a car, never spent a night in a hotel, never saw the ocean, and was never on an airplane. Her life revolved around family, home, neighbors and hard work. When I was young, Mom worked at a variety of jobs not only to augment Dad’s small income but to ensure I had what the other kids had. Her life was an example of putting others first and self second. I was slow to learn that lesson. 

In a garden, one warm midsummer’s eve,
As the greens readied for night’s cool reprieve,
And the fireflies’ light suffused the air
All was calm and bright on that evening fair.

But then a small voice, and the silence broke —
The quiet cleared as an Apple bespoke.
“For quite some time, a question I’ve in mind
That’s been eating at me to ask in kind.”

The Peaches rustled, the Plums gave a shake,
And Pears bustled as each fruit yawned awake.
“What?” Orange bristled, “For the time is past
When we should be asleep; so make this fast.”

“Very well,” the Apple crisply replied,
“While we all claim to be the best supplied
Which of us fruit did Eve pluck from the tree?
I, of course, think it was most likely me.”

Written by: Karen Anne Donner We keep descending into our tomb whose walls are built of cold stones of self-centeredness, whose mortar is a sticky paste from our clenched fists. In the darkness we don’t see our true self. We can’t see God. We can’t see others. Then, we think...