My mom has always been a source of gentle humor in our family. Whenever she got amazed or exasperated by something, Mom would try to say, “Well …” — probably meaning to eventually say “well, I never.”
Instead, all that came out was a “wuh” noise. Then she would say it repeatedly, in a sort of cadence that got louder as she further grasped her own amazement: “wuh … wuh … Wuh … WUH …!” Nana’s “whooping crane noise” became the running gag in our home for expressing mock amazement.
The jokes have stopped … for now. We’re at my mom’s funeral.
Honestly, my mom’s death was a mixture of sadness with relief. My mom had become a different person in her later years. As people do when they get sick, she had become more irritable.
The past several years, whenever I’d call both of them would pick up a different phone in the house. Each one wanted to listen in to hear what their only spoiled child had to say. But those conversations had become increasingly tough in recent years. I’d often end up refereeing as my mom would argue with most anything dad said on the phone.
While it was all unfair to my dad, I understood how she felt. She was physically miserable, in continual pain, and nothing much comforted her anymore. To her, those final years of life were cruel and unfair. And it was easy for her to take it all out on the nearest person in the room, my dad.
While I was sad she was gone now, I couldn’t help but secretly be happy for my dad. It bothered me the way she often talked to him. She would bring up things from the past that should have stayed buried, but her bitterness wouldn’t allow it. Now that she’s gone, I’d rather my dad be allowed to live his final years in peace. He’d spent too long as a caregiver and punching bag.
That evening after the graveside service, dad sat in his chair and talked with me about the day, and about Mom. However, the more he talked, the more it became clear to me he felt none of the relief I was feeling. He racks his brain for what he might have done to head off her stroke before it happened. What were the warning signs, if any, he missed? If only he had more time with her …
Even with all the pain my mom inflicted upon him in those last years, dad was in no way ready for her death. He would have happily endured endless years more of punishment if he could only have her near him again.
As I sit and listen to him talk about her, I’m astounded at how completely unreasonable and unexpected love can be. How indestructible and resilient. Even when we do everything possible to destroy it, true love endures no matter what.
He brings out their wedding pictures and marvels at her beauty. He describes her in idealized terms, conveniently forgetting the past 10 miserable years. It’s not that he’s avoiding the truth. His love simply doesn’t care about all the pain she caused him.
I sat there into the late evening and listened as Dad described a woman she had not truly been in years. The same voice I heard arguing with her on the phone two months before now quivers every time he mentions her name.
This is the beauty of God’s kind of love. This is the stubborn miracle of marriage. It’s a commitment that endures even when feelings fade and can withstand the onslaughts of its very object. It loves even when hurt is the only payback.
Watching my dad, I’m learned the secret to lasting relationships is probably how much pain we are willing to absorb, and how determined we are to give back love in return.
My dad fell asleep in his chair that night, as has become his custom. Though Mom’s pain meant they could no longer sleep in the same bed, he had remained stationed outside her door like a sentry for the past years. I can tell he has no plans to leave that post now, even with her gone.
In a time when we treat people as disposable, I’m thankful for the great lesson about love my dad is teaching me. I’m grateful God doesn’t give up on me when I complain like my mom did in those final days. And I’m so blessed to have a wife who loves me the way my dad loves my mom.
When the time comes for my funeral, I could only hope my family sees me with the same stubborn, blind love my mom received. That love that comes from God can endure a million cuts, and still never runs dry.
