I Remember Mama

A Special Mary Moment Monday Post by Deacon Tom Fox

It is an honor to be asked by a wordsmith to do an e-guest appearance and to submit a column on a topic that may interest or invite readership. I best not tarry.

One would guess that the profile of readers who frequent this area wouldn’t have a clue what the title “I Remember Mama” is about. Those of us a few hours earlier than most readers may recall a play and a television series from the late 1940’s and well into the 1950’s.

It was a story set in one of our old haunts – San Francisco. I Remember Mama featured an immigrant family: the Hansens who came from Norway. Mama (Irene Dunne in the movie, Peggy Wood in the TV series) was the focal point of the show, although it was told through the eyes of the daughter, Katrin.

One of the television lines used in the opening of the show each week was spoken by Katrin: “I remember the big white house on Steiner Street, and my little sister Dagmar, and my big brother Nels, and Papa. But most of all, I remember Mama.”

This was a show set in what seemed a wonderfully wholesome time in our country. We followed the Hansens in the simplest, most normal of daily joys and sorrows and goals.

In fact, that show is the way I now view my family life as I grew up on the East Side of Detroit.

One of my memories of my mom was her sitting at the kitchen table with me in my early years. Mom made me memorize prayers and multiplication tables. I wasn’t much good at math in those years — but I knew the Acts of Faith, Hope and Charity and the Morning Offering and the Act of Contrition. It is so sad that modern parenting doesn’t support such upbringing.

Mom died in 2004. My wife Dee and I were living in San Francisco at the time. We knew where Steiner Street is, we knew and loved the City by the Bay, and we had tried to get my mom to relocate from Detroit to be near us. We even had a placed picked out for her. At the near last minute, she balked at moving and our plans fell apart. Skip to 2004.

Mom suffered from congestive heart failure in her final months. Her doctor told me it was ‘end-stage.’ He said that she would pass in days or a few weeks. But it was months, and I made three trips between San Francisco and the east side of Detroit. Mom was in a nursing home. Some visit days were bright and cheerful. Some were quite depressing. Lack of oxygen to her brain made Mom strangely incoherent from time to time.

They called me on a Friday in July from the place where she was. The staffer said my mom told them she was going to die the next day and she wanted to speak to me. By the time I was able to get to a place where I could call her room and speak to her – she was back to being very garbled. And true to her prediction — she did die the next afternoon. How’s that for spiritual or spooky or some such?

After the funeral, we began to take mom’s apartment apart. These furniture items were donated to this daughter. These things to another daughter. Those items over there were to go to San Francisco and be with us. Lots of items were donated to a St. Vincent De Paul sort of facility.

Mom left a most surprising gift. As we went through the remnants of her life, one of the things I found was an old roll of Kodak film. It had apparently been exposed but never developed. Months after returning to San Francisco, I came upon the film and decided to take it to a camera shop on West Portal Street. A week later, more as afterthought, I stopped to pick up whatever may have developed from the film.

As you see in this article — there are two pictures. One is of my family – it must have been taken about 1949. Left to right, there is a very young Deacon Tom, my dad, Thomas, my mom Mary, and brother Eddie, may God rest their souls. The lower picture is of our home on the east side of Detroit. Quick math shows that we found and printed pictures from about 55 years earlier in our family. What a gift.

I remember Mama. She was a lovely woman. She was a prayerful, holy woman. She could be a task mistress. She is, almost certainly in Heaven.

I remember you, Mom. And I’m so glad you never gave up on me, though from time to time, it might have been warranted. I pray for you and Dad and Eddie nearly every day at Mass. I thank you. I love you.

Deacon Tom, together with his lovely wife Dee, is the magic behind the weekly nourishment you’ll find at Catholic Vitamins. He’s online at DeaconTomOnline.com, writes for CatholicMom.com and Catholic Family, in addition to the work he does for his diocese and within his own family.

Note from Sarah: Though Deacon Tom did not submit this guest post to be a Mary Moment Monday post, when I read it, I couldn’t resist sharing it in this space as a Mary Moment Monday post.

Maybe Birthdays Aren’t About Me

That’s what came to mind after further reflection. Maybe the whole birthday thing isn’t about me at all.

I don’t often post twice in one day anymore, but today I’m breaking that “rule” to share a thought that a wise family member thoughtfully shared with me today, after reading my earlier post about how I hate my birthday:

A thought for you:

Birthdays are a reminder that you are alive; alive to be who you are, who you want to be, who you want to become. Perhaps it’s being a mom, or a wife, or a daughter, or a girlfriend, or just a friend to someone who needs a friend.  Maybe its all of the above.

We don’t often think of ourselves on a day-to-day basis, but we are often times thought of by someone else on a day-to-day basis. Parents wishing children happy birthday are just as much a reminder to themselves of that special day however many years ago that they were blessed.  When we are  so very young, the anticipation of the cake and being the “Birthday Girl” as someone so joyfully told everyone not too long ago, is important and exciting.  As we grow and life takes over, the day becomes not so exciting – - we still have to get up and go to work, clean the house, cook the meal, take care of the kids — it becomes just another day so to speak.

Sometimes people saying happy birthday to us is just a reminder that we still have to do all the other things — we can’t just be “The Birthday Girl” anymore.  We are so much more. But being so much more can be rewarding itself too.  Take the time to reflect on your accomplishments — you are:  A Daughter, A Graduate, A Wife, A Mom, A Writer.

Know that when people say Happy Birthday — they are not really reminding you that you are another year older, they are saying how glad they are to have had you in their life for another year.

Because so often I don’t journey through these thought processes alone, I wanted to share this beautiful sentiment and invite you to chime in, as always, with your own wisdom.

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God’s Love, by Mark Szewczak

I’m so blessed to welcome Mark Szewczak back to my corner of cyberspace. If you missed his last reflection about life in an empty nest, do go read it. Thanks to Mark for sharing his wisdom and tender heart with all of us and for his reminder of how much God loves us.

Recently I have noticed a number of mom bloggers writing about their day-to-day lives filled with kids, laundry, housework. They write to encourage and share with others similarly situated. As an older dad, I find I can identify in some specific ways with what they write. They speak to me in a surprisingly personal way.

But I need to share something. I find myself being choked up when I read of a little one having a 104 degree fever and crying in pain from an ear infection. I feel for the mother who is now without sleep for umpteen nights and beginning to doubt her sanity.  I sense a dad helpless to fix things (it’s what we guys think we are supposed to do) and wanting to stay home from work, but knowing that means not getting a full paycheck or receiving a black mark at work which hurts his family, his responsibility. I read of a family with a child having a serious chronic disease and my hearts bleeds inside.

Where does this personal connection come from?  When I was younger I stuffed some of these things for selfless and selfish reasons. My wife and I have been through all these things and indeed have a child with a major life-long medical issue who is now a happy adult. Why wasn’t I closer to this tearing-up point back 20 years ago? How did we, then, and these parents, now, handle it all?

“Why”  and “How” questions come easier to me now. Answers, not so much. In pondering all of this I have begun to understand in a veiled way what it means when we hear that God shares our sorrows.

Having this intensified empathy lately is, I think, a gift from God. You see, God is empathy. It is a manifestation of His being Love. God so loves us that He completely experiences our sorrows, struggles, pains and joys along with us. He isn’t “up there,” He is right here.

Having this starting point, I begin to ponder the next “why” question: why does it continue, why does He let it happen? Now if you think I have got the answer to THAT one, well…oh my, no. But then again, having gone through my life to this point somehow has brought me to a more compassionate place.

When I was young I thought as a young man, full of myself, my learning, my ideas of HOW THINGS SHOULD BE. Now I am older and learning something new: that it isn’t all about me. It’s about all of us.

I cannot be a member of Christ’s Body if I am not aiming to be in tune as He is in tune…each cry, each laugh, each tear. For me, it is taking a long time to get that point. God has been training me in life, in the school of struggle and suffering so I can KNOW the suffering and struggles of my fellow sisters and brothers in the Body of Christ.

What he is telling me is that THIS is my job, to be His compassion, His empathy, His hands, His words, His LOVE to everyone I meet. When that happens in my imperfect way, God does act to stop the suffering, heal the torment, and bring joy. It takes me to be open to His promptings. I pray I stay on the road to bring the Good news to the next person, who takes it to the next…and the next. It is as St. Teresa of Avila tells us:

“God has no hands but our hands to do his work today;
God has no feet but our feet to lead others in his way;
God has no voice but our voice to tell others how he died;
and, God has no help but our help to lead them to his side.”

© Mark R. Szewczak, 2010

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