Eulogy
My father asked me to focus my comments on the spiritual aspect of Mom’s life. This has proved to be difficult, because the more faith a person possesses, the more that person is able to say, with God, that “all things are spiritual.” I observed in Kathy Wood a woman of such faith that, while I could describe her spirituality by talking about the deep, solemn moments of her life, I could do it equally well by describing the way in which she talked about the weather. I’ve decided to start by describing the way she argued. Mom hated contention, but she also wasn’t one to back down from an argument, especially if it had anything to do with politics. Well, I’ve never really loved politics, so whenever my mom would try to lure me into a political discussion, I usually changed the subject. But in a recent series of emails, I found myself interested enough to take the bait and engage her on a few political issues. Well, she was relentless. I wish you could see the actual emails. I would state my position with a few paragraphs, and in her responses she would just take me to task. She had a point-by-point analysis of every claim and every assumption. And she was usually right. More important than being right, however, was her habit of interjecting loving little reminders that everything is, in the end, spiritual. During one of these conversations, the topic turned to health care, and from health care it turned to the various physical maladies that members of the family were dealing with at the time. This is what she said: I think I experience a little "survivor guilt" when I consider the many people in my family who deal with serious physical ailments. There, but for the grace of God, go I... So I feel a little guilty, on the one hand, and a little fearful that my turn is just around the corner. I'm sure we'll all look back on mortality and just laugh. So my "to do" list for each day reads: 1) Live joyfully in the moment. 2) Accept the circumstances God has allowed in your life. Look forward with an eye of faith and a hopeful heart to tomorrow. This was Mom’s style. Talking about the health care system and then, boom, out of the blue, a rather prophetic and insightful statement of her philosophy of life and death. That is how Mom argued. I want to talk about this to-do list that she outlined, but first there are a few things to say about the “survivor guilt” that she mentioned. She experienced this survivor guilt for most of her life, I think. The only time I remember her being in the hospital (aside from when she was giving birth to us) was when her horse bucked her and she landed face first into a wooden fence. Other than this, she was literally the healthiest person I know. Perhaps only her family and closest friends know that she was a health nut. She faithfully exercised. She was an expert with natural remedies; we joke about the time she tried to get us to drink phytoplankton (we lovingly referred to her as the “Witchdoctor”). She fasted from sugar for about 75% of her married life, it seemed. She also fasted from buying sugary foods for us kids most of the time. For a guy who can subsist entirely on Cocoa Pebbles, it is a severe trial to wake up in the morning and find health cereals with names like “Gorilla Munch” or “Rain Forest Crunch.” The word compassion comes from the Latin words for “suffer” and “with”. Maybe one of the reasons Mom was partially spared from physical suffering throughout her life is that she had learned how to suffer with others. Maybe the survivor’s guilt she felt was just a misinterpretation of the great ocean of compassion she had within her, which gave her an unflagging desire to take the burdens of others on her own back. She shouldn’t have felt guilty that her back was preserved and strengthened. Due to the fact that she constantly shared the loads of others, her back was as bent as anyone else’s. At first glance, it seems like all of this suffering might conflict with the first item on her to-do list: living joyfully in the moment. Is it possible to suffer with someone and be joyful at the same time? It doesn’t seem like it should be possible, but Mom did it. I can remember occasions where she would express sorrow and concern about a friend or a family member (and many times that family member was me), and then, in a jarring sort of way, would crack a corny joke or proceed to talk about some funny little thing that her horse did that day. When she did that, she was unknowingly teaching us that no matter how much suffering (whether the suffering is on our own or with someone else), there is always room for joy. It reminds me of the words of Christ, “For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” So many of Mom’s favorite activities were motivated by a desire to share her joy with others. I’ll briefly mention one here. Most people here are acquainted with her love for music. She understood and respected the power of music to communicate ideas and feelings that are otherwise incommunicable. She loved to sing, play the piano, compose, and arrange music. But this doesn’t even begin to get at the music that Mom had inside her. The best way to describe it: Mom was convinced that she was living in a musical. Sometimes, for no good reason, she would end her sentences by singing them. She had no power over her body when there was upbeat music in the air; she had no choice but to dance, and her specialty was the robot. Her laugh was pretty normal unless you really got her going, and then she would kick it up a couple octaves, letting out long bursts and gliding scales. When she yelled at concerts and football games, you could detect just a slight vibrato in her voice. She simply couldn’t help it. Perhaps as an explanation or apology for this tendency, in our living room she displayed a plaque that says, “Music is an outburst of the soul.” Someone recently reminded me of something C.S. Lewis said: How little people know who think that holiness is dull; when one meets the real thing, it is irresistible. I think Mom was an expert at tapping into this irresistible holiness. Dad was an expert at noticing it and pointing it out to us. One example: he recently told me that Mom had made a goal to go to the temple more frequently. He was impressed that she was able to meet this goal, but what really stuck out to him was what he described as a “glow” that she always had after leaving the temple. Another example: on a number of occasions, I’ve heard my father say that he has long sensed that Mom loves God more than she loves him, and that this is one of the things he loves most about her. I must admit that there were times when this statement was unsettling to me, but those were the times when I failed to realize that our love for God never needs to conflict with our love for others; indeed, that our full potential for loving others can only be reached by letting God teach us how to love. So there were times when it was tempting to interpret Mom’s love for me as a lack of love because it was clear that she was loving God first; it felt like she was choosing God over me. Mom’s unwavering brand of love was to help us love God. Depending on where we are spiritually, that sort of love can be painful, or it can be irresistible. What are we supposed to do when someone like this is unexpectedly removed from us? You find yourself thinking such strange thoughts. What was the last thing I said to her? When was the last time I told her that I loved her, or kissed her, or hugged her? Was I a disappointment to her in any way? She took such wonderful care of the body that God gave her -- maybe she would’ve lived to be a hundred years old. She couldn’t wait to meet her grandchildren. All of these thoughts are thoughts about timing, in a way. It is natural, I think, to feel like the timing of this sort of accident is inappropriate and unfair. Unfair to Mom, but also unfair to us. We can allow ourselves to feel guilty about mistakes, unexpressed apologies, or even events completely out of our control. Or we can take some advice from Kathy, and accept the circumstances that God has allowed in our lives. In another precious letter to all of her children, she said the following: “I know that my greatest joy and peace comes when I allow my agenda to be overshadowed by the Lord's agenda for me. I trust Him.” We can’t mourn irresistible Kathy by despairing, blaming, or losing faith. Rather, we mourn her by accepting the Lord’s agenda in this, and by looking forward with an eye of faith and a hopeful heart to tomorrow. I’ll leave you with one last image that, in my opinion, captures Mom’s efforts to look forward with a hopeful heart to tomorrow. Mom and Dad bought some property out in Amador County, and for the past decade or so they’ve been developing the Wood Valley Ranch. It started out as some rolling hills with scattered oak trees, but my parents have been laying down roads, digging wells, planting a garden, tending a small group of chickens, and building a couple of bunkhouses (with electricity and running water). My mother’s favorite thing to do out there was feed, exercise, and groom her horse, Attitude, in the stable and arena that she had helped build. Because of all of the love and sweat she poured into the dirt there, this Ranch was, for Mom -- and it remains for us -- a place with deep spiritual roots. This was her future. This is where she was making her plans, and so I think it will always remain a physical symbol of the special type of hopefulness that Mom had. She didn’t just hope with her heart -- she also hoped with her hands. Another of Mom and Dad’s favorite activities while out on the ranch was stargazing. Many of you are familiar with my father’s love for astronomy. And, since he loves it, Mom loved it too, of course. She had that special way of loving people by loving the things they love. Well, both of my parents have taught me some important things about stars. One thing that always gets me is the thought that when we look at a star, we are looking at the past. By the time the light from a star reaches our eyes, it can be millions of years old. Long after a star is dead and gone, its light will continue to inspire us and teach us. Of all the things that give me light, my Mom, even though she is not here, is among the brightest. She has become part of my own personal constellation. Sometimes -- especially in the coming weeks and months -- I’m sure she will be the center of that constellation, but if I actually pay attention to that irresistible glow that she sparkles with, I’m sure she’ll swiftly direct my attention to another star--the one that she called her Bright and Morning Star. That bright and morning star is Jesus Christ, the son of God. There are very few things that I know. One thing of which I am absolutely certain is that the overflowing joy my mom possessed was primarily a function of her commitment to be a disciple of Christ.
