My Mother's Day

The Church sits on a little rise facing the vast blue ocean. It seems to look over the busy freeway and clusters of roadside businesses and see only the sea and sky beyond, even beyond the horizon.

Our Lady of Fatima held the group inside. Friends, family and those who accompanied them filed into the foyer with pictures of my mom arranged on a table, exchanging hugs and quiet greetings. As I walked into the church, I was surprised to see so many people filling the pews, but I guess I shouldn't have been. Groups of Red Hat ladies, friends from Curves, co-workers of Brad, Wendy and Matt, cherished childhood friends since the days of Incarnation School; all reaffirming how special my mom really was.

This particular church reminded me of our parish St. Frances de Sales in Sherman Oaks, where Jeff Reed and I attended school until 1967. The two churches are notable for their simplicity. As a girl this bothered me. I really thought churches should resemble Notre Dame Cathedral, or if that wasn't possible, at least Saint Charles Borromeo, our neighboring parish in North Hollywood. Now, they seem just right, because they reflect the quality I had planned to talk about if I spoke, and coincidentally used by Gretchen in her wonderful remembrance, "she was not pretentious".That's how it seemed the tall mosaic of Our Lady in front of us was. Not pretentious. Calm. Sweet. Even her outstretched arms with upturned palms seemed soothing.

Thank you Father Ramos. Your words about the glittering Sea of Galilee and hills of the Holy Land that you had recently visited were inspiring. It meant so much that my mother's cousin Monsignor Gibson participated in the celebration of the Mass, as well as Julia and Uncle Bill. The music and voice were perfect. I know my mother loved them.
~~~~~~

I miss you so much, Mom. I really can't believe you're gone. My mind plays tricks on me. The thought, "I'll ask Mom" or "I'll tell Mom" pops into my thoughts so often, followed by a stab of pain. Today I had to catch myself as the words became audible. "I'll have to che--" Oh. No. I wonder if the person I said that to noticed. I knew this day would come, but at the same time tried to cling to the idea that it never would.

Now I live in the reality of the sweet sketch by Carol Burnett and Whoopie Goldberg in 1986. Mother and daughter through the years, gradually exchanging roles, but always the tender song and loving embrace as they said goodbye and I committed to memory:

"Where are you going?
Wish that I knew
You're off to wherever
May your dreams come true
Where is wherever?
We never will know
How can I ever let you go?"