Eulogy: Mother

Eulogy For Diane-Terrill M. Anderson
© A. Edrich
All materials copyrighted

Eulogy: A formal expression of praise for someone who recently died.

How do you tell a person’s life story in such a short period of time? I decided to focus on one aspect of my mom's life…the aspect I admired the most. The aspect that I believe was her legacy! (When I got done, the first thing I wanted to do was pick up the phone and call my mom. I actually did reach for the phone!)

I can't think of a better way to explain a eulogy then to give tribute to a great woman; my mother.

My mother passed away on March 10, 2006 at 2:30 p.m. And my life will never again be the same. She was my rock and my fortress. When I failed, she would remind me that it wasn’t the end of the world. And when I acted like a jerk, she wasn’t afraid to call me on it, love me through it, and forgive me for it. She often loved me in spite of myself.

Several years ago, my world fell apart and I did everything in my power to push everyone around me away. I made people’s lives miserable as I dealt with the loss of my daughter. But my mother never wavered in her love or her support. Sure, there were times when she would say, “I am going to slap you into next week!” or “You better keep me away from her before I strangle her.” But she always came back prepared for the battle.

When I couldn’t turn to my husband or my friends, or when I couldn’t hear the Lord speak to me, I could always reach out to my mom and she would take me by the hand and walk me through the crisis.

But I wasn’t the only person she did this with. My mother had a very generous spirit—sometimes at the sacrifice of her own personal health.

If you fell from grace, she was the first person to reach out, wipe the dirt off your feet, and help you start a fresh, new life. If you didn’t have enough money to pay your rent, buy groceries, or get medication, she found a way to get it for you—even if it meant she went without eating, medication, or something she had been saving for, just for herself.

When we lived in the projects, oh wait! My mother didn’t like to admit we lived in the projects…when we lived in the military housing that was later bought by the city, my mother worked three jobs to make ends meet. There were times when she’d go without eating because there simply wasn’t enough money to feed all of us. And yet, every year, Santa Claus came with a big BANG!

I remember one story my mother’s friend once told me. My mom was making a payment on her lay-a-way when a man came up behind her and stole her money. The next thing the customers saw was a crazy woman, in high heels, running after her assailant screaming, “No one takes my girls’ Christmas money!” Then with the leap of a linebacker in full gear, my mother tackled the man, got her money back and made her lay-a-way payment.

Then there was the time a bunch of kids took turns shooting a BB gun at a poor, defenseless dog. My sister and I ran into the house to inform my mother of this injustice. She ran outside and in the midst of flying pellets grabbed the gun from the boys and chased them around the neighborhood yelling, “How would you like it if I shot you with one of these pellets?!”

And then there’s the time she befriended the neighborhood gang, who just so happened to have the entire block scared to death—to the point that every adult was paying “protection money.”

One afternoon, my mother walked outside the backdoor to discover our neighbors handing white envelopes to the gang members.

Confused, she walked up to the corner neighbor on our left and said, “What’s going on? What’s in those white envelopes?”

To which my neighbor replied, “Protection money. Don’t you pay it?”

Astonished and dazed, my mother asked, “Protection from what?”

My neighbor went on to inform my mother that it was money to protect their children from the gang members and their homes from being robbed. Having no part of this, my mother came up with a plan—of which I still do not fully know—and had a heart-to-heart talk, with a rifle in hand (but little did they know it was only a BB gun) and informed the gang members that under no uncertain terms would her block ever pay “protection” money again.

The day after her “memorable” speech, I came home to find a slew of gang members sitting on my front porch. Panic-stricken, my hands shook as I placed the key in the lock of my door and turned the handle.

“When is your mom coming home?” they asked.

“I don’t know. About five o’clock.” I replied.

That was the first of many long talks my mother would have with those gang members. Years later, my mother was proud to find out that many of them had not only changed their lives around, but graduated from high school.

There are many more stories like these, from our days of living in the projects but we simply do not have time for them today.

My mother often wondered why she stayed so long, why it was so hard for her to leave the projects. She rationalized that she was afraid of renting an apartment that wouldn’t adjust its rates to her changing income; but looking back, I believe it was because the projects were her “mission field.” The place, where despite all of our hardships, family problems, and life’s uncertainties, she knew she could reach out and make a difference.

After leaving the projects, my mother’s heart for helping didn’t die. I watched, year after year, as my sister brought home people who needed someone to believe in them…someone who wasn’t afraid to tell them like it is…someone willing to push them to the limits and help them turn their lives around. And every year, I would watch my mom open up her home, her pocket book, and her heart to these people. And lives were forever changed.

Then of course, there were her grandchildren. Her grandchildren were the center of her universe and while she loved them all the same, she had a unique relationship with each of them.

When she could no longer work, my mother felt useless. But then Rhonda would call and say, “I can’t figure out Andrew’s homework. Can you please help him?” or “I have to work, can you take Andrew to practice, his doctor’s appointment, or the school function?” And all of a sudden, my mother’s life felt important again.

I can’t tell you the number of times she would say, “Andrew gives me a reason to get up every morning.” When she talked about him, her voice lit up with excitement and it was as though all was right with the world.

When we lived in California, my mom would wake up at 3 o’clock in the morning to pack her car and drive one hour to our home in Corona, where she’d wait in excitement for my children to get up and open all the presents she had brought. We used to call her, “Santa’s helper.” And say, “Nana brought all the gifts Santa couldn’t fit his in sleigh.” After opening their presents, Nana would watch, in pure delight, as they played and enjoyed Christmas as only children could.

My son was her video game playing buddy. Not a visit would go by without the two of them plopped in front of a television set, playing Sega Genesis. The day my son referred, in a school report, to his Nana as “his best friend,” was one of the happiest and most joyous days of my mom’s life.

Then there’s my daughter. “The wild child,” she liked to call her. My daughter was stubborn and had a mind of her own. My mom loved to tease and say, “Well…at least she came by it honestly.” MyKaela could always charm the pants off her Nana. Their bond was special, too. They could wrestle for hours on end and it would never be enough.

Nana always found a loophole in my sister and my rules. If she could get around something, without causing harm to her grandchildren, or a fight with us, she would do it in a heartbeat. “A grandmother’s role in life is to spoil her grandchildren,” she’d always say.

I often told her how happy I was that my children had the grandmother I never had. That she loved them so much that they could feel it. That when they weren’t around her, or couldn’t talk to her on the phone, their hearts would ache with sorrow and beg to be with her again.

A part of her heart died the day she watched my children—her grandchildren—drive away and move out of state. But she knew that was the only way we were going to heal…the only way we had a chance at the life she always dreamed for us.

I talked to my mother, Marme as I called her, on the phone for hours at a time. And whenever I got off the phone, it was as though she were living right next door. I can’t believe she’s gone. I can’t believe I’ll never be able to pick up another phone and hear her voice on the other end.

My mom was a fighter. She fought her way through divorce, poverty, rape, 2 bouts of cancer, back surgery, pneumonia, a major heart attack, heartache, death, personal and monetary loss, and so many other hardships…too many to list.

My mom used to tell me, “God says He’ll never give me more than I can handle. I don’t know how strong He thinks I am, but I’m pretty sure, I’ve had about all I can handle.” Then she’d giggle because she knew God knew she could handle so much more.

She was a great role model to so many people. Not only did my mom change the lives of so many people, but she left behind a legacy that will not be forgotten.

A legacy that says:

• value people enough to make a difference in their lives;
• love people enough that your faults never matter; and
• always remember to be true to yourself.

About The Author:
Alyice Edrich believes that eulogies, written from the heart, pay respect to the deceased, and give honor to his/her memory. Hire Alyice to help you write your eulogy, tribute, or funeral speech. Learn More

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