As tempting as it is to compose a maudlin, sorrowful essay, I am instead celebrating my mother’s life. She passed away on Sunday morning, one month to the day before her 97th birthday.

I loved my mother deeply. She was a kind, thoughtful woman who I think deserves to be lauded for putting up with me, her oldest and always rebellious son. She and my father did their best to raise me to be a righteous, Christian man. Unfortunately, until a few years before dad passed, I wanted nothing to do with church. I am glad I came to my senses and decided to re-enter the waters of baptism before dad left us. He performed the ordinance and I remember the smile on mom’s face when I joined them for the service’s closing prayer.

Looking back on my childhood and beyond, I cannot remember my mother ever completely losing her temper and yelling at me. I did plenty of things that infuriated her, but she tried not to discipline any of us while she was angry. She usually waited and regaled dad with the account of my transgressions when he got home from work. He was not a stern man, either. We were rarely spanked; dad used his imagination to punish us which, in my opinion, conveyed the message much more effectively than physical correction could ever have.

My mother was a strong Saskatchewan girl from a Mennonite family. In my opinion, she was the rebel of the family, in that she was the only daughter to marry someone from outside of the surrounding area, and an American to boot!

Mom did not marry into wealth, but her and my father loved each other deeply and it showed. They had differences, but what married couple doesn’t? On the few occasions dad got her mad, she gave him the silent treatment. I don’t think it was to punish him, but to prevent herself from throwing unkind and ill-conceived accusations or insults.

I expected mom to fall apart when my father passed away in 2011, and I suspect my brothers and sisters feared the same. It must have been her rural Saskatchewan upbringing that strengthened her, because she squared her shoulders and carried right on. Within a week, she was back to normal and taking care of business as usual. In 2017 my wife and I moved to Calgary to help my sister care for her, and I had the blessing of talking to her about his passing and a lot of other things.

We talked about the aftermath of losing her husband, and I told her how surprised and impressed I was with her strength, to which she replied, “what else could I do? He was gone and crying all day wasn’t bringing him back, so why waste my time?” I remember wondering if I could suffer the loss of my wife and be half as stoic. In case you’re wondering, my conclusion was, no way in aitch, ee, double hockey sticks.

Alzheimer’s took her, but it was not the long, drawn-out trial that a lot of people suffer through with this pernicious affliction. She was admitted to the hospital last week and though the doctor told us she had only days remaining, the message telling me of her death was still hard to take.

I love my mother, and my father, and the knowledge that we will be reunited as a family in the hereafter is a great comfort.

The titile of my post, “God Be with You Till We Meet Again” is one of my favorite hymns. I love it, but I cannot get through it without the sentiment catching in my throat and making it impossible to continue. Although it is a simple tune with simple words, its message and promise is uplifting.

Goodbye, mom. I love you.