Today’s column has excerpts from my January 27, 2024, eulogy for my mother and is published for her 94th birthday. This eulogy refers to sister Carolyn, nephew Collin, wife Hilary, and children Ryan and Margaret. It followed Collin’s eulogy:

It’s no secret, Mom, that our goal was to keep you in your own home. Those who have read my column of January 26 know that we succeeded.

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It’s not everyone who isn’t from here who lights up this community. But you’ve done it.

Many at Bigelow’s saw something special in you, and made you a buyer for the store.

After working there, you lit up not only many community organizations but also Carolyn’s life and mine.

You were there for all of those joyous occasions when we lived on Prendergast and spent days at Cheney’s Point.

You were there for swimming lessons at what was then called the Jamestown Boys Club.

You were there to support Carolyn and me in our schoolwork and in school activities.

Years later, Carolyn’s first-grade teacher described you as the best room mother she’d ever had.

You were there when the acceptance letters came from Duke and West Virginia.

Between the two of us, you came to five graduations spanning a dozen years.

You attended both of our weddings and danced at both of our receptions.

You take a special joy in Collin, whom you adore and who adores you. He, in his usual eloquence, has just shared some of that that special bond that the two you will always have.

You were also there for those not so fun times for Carolyn and me.

Two tonsillectomies.

One of us having difficulty learning how to ride her bicycle.

The other of us breaking a wrist, which dented his tennis season.

You were there when jobs collapsed.

You were there when your son and his fiance returned from a state-political-party convention, where he learned that he would not receive the attorney-general nomination because of the color of his skin.

You hugged him and said, “You did your best.”

And then there was that awful day, when Dad–whom you had known for 49½ years–went to the office and didn’t come home for lunch.

Because he wasn’t coming home anymore.

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Then, 21 years later, when I was also about to stand in similar shoes, I called you from Los Angeles and told you it wouldn’t be long.

“I thought we had more time than this,” you said.

“No,” I replied.

And you added, “Now I know why I’m still here. I’m supposed to help you through this.”

Which you’ve done.

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The previous decade hasn’t been your easiest or most fun.

You defeated colon cancer at an age when the odds wouldn’t favor most people.

But you weren’t most people. You beat it with your own determination and the help you received.

Plus, you were in good shape. During your first meeting with a fleet of doctors and nurses, they thought your chart had way overstated your age, because it said you were 84 years old.

“I am 84 years old,” you said.

After your treatment, we took you for a follow-up appointment. You were understandably afraid the other shoe would drop. But it didn’t. The cancer was gone.

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(Y)ou smiled and with tears in your eyes said, “I can’t believe it.”

But you had done it. And the cancer never returned.

Even in the ensuring years, you kept bouncing back.

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Today we celebrate your entry into the Church Triumphant, where you are reunited with Dad, your parents, your brothers and sister, and many others.

You’re united with your unborn child.

And you’re united with two grandchildren who did not get to be born, little Ryan and little Margaret.

All of which is the culmination of what for you has been an earthly life extraordinarily well lived–extraordinarily well lived.

For that, what I said from this lectern at Hilary’s memorial service applies today. In the words of Isaiah from our wedding and her memorial service, you, Mom, “shall go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and the hills before you shall break forth into singing, and all the trees of the field (–all the trees of the field–) shall clap their hands.”

For you, Mom. For you.

For that, for you, for your love, for your dedication, for your loyalty, and for your extraordinary life, which now continues in Heaven, all of us here are grateful to Almighty God today and always.

I’ll always love you, Mom. I will always love you.

Amen

Margaret Elf passed from earthly life to eternal life on January 17, 2024. The full eulogy, delivered in Jamestown, is at https://works.bepress.com/elf

(c) 2024 BY RANDY ELF