Eulogy for My Mom

My mom crossed over on October 16, 2024. In honor of her, I’m posting my eulogy for her which I gave at her memorial service on November 16, 2024.

One of the most difficult things for me during Mom’s journey with Alzheimer’s is not just that she forgot who I was, but over time I forgot my memories of who she was. This mirroring effect is common, I’ve recently learned. But to my delight, my memories of Mom began flooding my mind and my heart very quickly after she passed. This has allowed me to commune with her over the past month. Talking to her while I take long walks. It’s been a rich time. I want to share several of my memories and the epiphanies that accompanied them with you now.

My mom was funny! She comes from a long line of dry, sarcastic humor. And silly. For those of you who know me, for most of my life, I have been a passionate and zealous person. Whatever I believe in and do, I go all in. But deep passion and dedication to my beliefs and purpose often came at a price. I got very serious. But what usually drew me back to reality and the comedic side of life, I learned from my mom. She taught me, both in words and actions, how to take other’s seriously, but never to take myself too seriously. This has really served me well.

And boy did she take the needs of others seriously. She carried on the legacy of her dad, by taking care of families in need, and she mostly did this by caring for countless children, as a teacher. Mom was a champion of the underdog, the disenfranchised, and the most vulnerable. She was a warrior for wherever she thought there was injustice. She helped so many vulnerable children, many coming from impoverished and violent homes, by providing education, food, and a safe place to spend their days. So much of my own sense and practice of justice and caring for people comes from her modeling this for me.

But again, I learned so powerfully from her how to balance all of these very serious things with lightness. For those of us who like to plumb the depths of existence, we always need a Jill to remind us that it’s equally important to come up for air and play in the shallow end at times. My Mom was my first dance instructor. She loved music and ecstatic dance. Before and during Alzheimer’s, one word or turn of phrase could trigger Mom to break into song and dance. Upon hearing the word “Lollipop” she would usually stand up and start dancing while she sang “Lollipop, lollipop, oh, lolli, lollipop. it would take me almost 50 years to stop taking myself so seriously, shut up, and just dance... I did it. And I really don’t think I could have done it without her. These days, when Leslie and I put on music and dance around our house, I feel Mom’s spirit dancing right alongside mine. In her final few days, I sang to her a lot. Songs I knew we both loved. Elvis. Beatles. And even with all the morphine, she would do her best to hum along. One of my most cherished memories of our last hours together is how she kept squeezing my hand as I gently sang to her, “I Wanna Hold Your Hand.” It seemed the more the disease ravaged her body and mind, the more she was able to surrender to music of life. I am grateful for the ways I, my kids, and even my grandkids were able to witness her in this.

And finally, perhaps the thing I’m most thankful for that I received from Mom was how to hold space for other people and their emotions. She was so good at this. Perhaps a little too good. She seemed to always have time to just be with me while I tried to express my feelings, but she rarely reciprocated. So while she helped to create a safe place for me to express myself, she rarely expressed her feelings to me. Which means I learned from her how to hold space for others, but not myself. Learning how to be vulnerable with my emotions and how to channel those emotions into creative endeavors is something I wouldn’t learn until much later on in life. But she set the tone and the foundation for holding space. To demonstrate what I mean, I want to close with my most cherished memory of my mom. I believe it captures part of the true essence of just how much of a kind and loving human she was.

Many of you here today know that my wife Leslie and I met in this very space. We fell in love at 17 and got married at 19. The combination of my “all-in-ness” at lightning speed and Leslie’s fierce loyalty meant that our relationship grew deep very quickly. And sometime fairly early on I got cold feet. So one night I was with Leslie at her family’s house on Logan St and I broke up with her. Now my family’s house was only a five minute drive from hers, but it didn’t even take whole ride home to realize that I had just made a terrible mistake. When I walked through the front door, my Mom was standing in front of me. It’s like somehow she knew. She could see the look on my face. She gently said, “Are you okay, sweetie?” I don’t ever remember her calling me that before or since, but right then and there I burst into tears as she held me tightly, for what felt like an hour. When I was finished sobbing and telling her how stupid I was for breaking up with Leslie Mezger, she didn’t say a word. She let me be. She just embraced me. She created that space for me to feel safe to cry and share and express all of my feelings. This was no small thing! And after I was done, she just allowed there to be space, silence. After some time, she lovingly put her hands on my cheeks and said, “You know.... it’s not too late. You love her and she’s a wonderful girl. You can fix this. Just call her.” She was right about all of it. From that, Leslie and I have created a life together.

My mom was a truly remarkable person. So is my dad. One of the recurring themes in my journal entries over the past few months is that if I had to do it all over again, I would want Jill and Randy as my parents again, for sure. Yes, I miss her deeply. Yes, I mourn the loss of stories and experiences that we wont’t share in person. But more than anything these days, I wake up each day with extreme gratitude that I was blessed and lucky enough to have Jill as my mom. Out of the hundreds of children she taught, I know I was her first student. What she taught me in life, I know she will keep on reminding me in spirit, especially on our walks and talks… that I am here in this world, as we all are, to love, be loved, and to shine in all of our glory. To my greatest teacher. I love you, Mom!