May 11, 2025

I had been away – busy and incommunicado for several days. The message was the last one on my answering machine when I got home. It lay curled like a wounded kitten at the end of a long line of incidentals.

Mag had died at 101 years of age – the long faithful friend of my grandmother, my mother, and me.

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The manner of Mag’s faithfulness to each of our generations had been different: a companion to Grandmom, a guide and confidant to Mom, a distant but vigilant observer and encourager of my life in my mother’s stead after Mom had died.

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When I called back to acknowledge the message, there was only one meaningful way to announce myself: “This is Eleanor’s daughter.” Just that said everything – it paid tribute to both Mag’s and my mother’s lives. It recognized the duty I owed in both their names. Mag’s daughter said, “We don’t expect you to come… we just wanted you to know.” My mother’s voice spoke in the silence of my heart – “Of course, you will go.”

So I traveled to the place where I grew up. There will never be any place that you know more intimately than your childhood neighborhood. You ran through its alleyways and knew its secret hiding places. You explored every inch of its terrain and, to this day, can remember its textures, smells, dangers, and promises. That day, I drove into its heart, remembering.

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As I approached the neighborhood, I saw that its edge had frayed like a tattered fabric. The industrial and commercial corridor that had hemmed the old neighborhood had disappeared. Abandoned lots had replaced the thriving factories and immigrant-run shops of my youth. The bustling avenues where I had once threaded my shiny Schwinn bike now echoed like empty canyons under my tires. Loss rose up in my throat like a bitter aftertaste.

But as I neared the church, the fabric began to re-weave. People still lived in the houses and gathered on the brick pavements. I saw neighbors walking to church, as my family had when I was young. I was to learn that the deep human links that had embraced our parish family remained unbroken.

It had been nearly fifty years since I last worshipped in St. Michael’s, but the church of my childhood was perfectly intact. Not only had it been physically restored to the perfection of its 200-year-old origin, but the descendants of many original families remained or had returned for the funeral. During the wake, we reconnected, weaving names and histories into a warm swaddling of belonging.

During preparation for the solemn funeral service, many people came to visit me in the silence of my heart: my parents who had taught me to pray, the sisters and priests who had nurtured my call to religious life, my neighbors and friends whose lives had found graceful regeneration each Sunday in this sanctuary. This place had been the heart of our “village”. It was where we learned and acknowledged that we live life together, not alone – and that the myriad pieces which make up who we are belong in some way to every person who has ever touched us. Every one of us attending Mag’s funeral was paying honor to that reality.

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It takes a lifetime to fully learn the office of honor. As a teenager, I was uncomfortable accompanying my mother on her many dutiful journeys: not wanting to visit my old maiden aunts in their very Victorian home, to take a pot of soup to a house in mourning, not knowing what to say at a neighbor’s wake. I remember my mother’s words on such occasions: “We show up. It’s what we do – because it’s all that we can do. It’s an honor to be with someone at these moments of their lives.”

I am old enough now to cherish that role of honor guard. I have learned its beauty and character from the many – including Mag — who have kept vigil beside me and my family in the challenges and blessings of life. I went to Mag’s funeral privileged to exercise that role in my mother’s name – to assume the duty of our family to “show up”.

To stand within duty is to be like a surfer poised inside the huge curl of a powerful wave. It is to ride on an energy that does not belong to you – to open yourself to it with gratitude, awe, and trust. It is to know – in an indescribable way – the profound power of God that holds all life together beyond time and beyond burden.

At Mag’s funeral, I was – once again – proud to be Eleanor’s daughter. I know that she and Mag smiled as I rejoiced in that pride. On this Mother’s Day, I remember that day as a very intentional gift to me, and I treasure it beyond telling.

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Music: Thank You

For Your Reflection

• What feelings or reactions do I have after reading this reflection?
• Do my feelings or reactions remind me of any passage or event in scripture, especially in the life of Christ? 
• What actions might I take today because of my response to these readings?

Suggested Scripture: Proverbs 31 (Adaptation)

Who can find a valiant woman?
She is worth far more than rubies.
Her family has full confidence in her
and lacks nothing of value.
She brings them good, not harm,
all the days of her life.
She gets up while it is still night;
she provides food for her neighbors
and portions for the very poor.
She considers a field and buys it;
out of her earnings she plants a vineyard.
She sets about her work vigorously;
her arms are strong for her tasks.
She sees that her work is fruitful,
and her lamp does not go out at night.
In her hand she holds the distaff
and grasps the spindle with her fingers.
She opens her arms to the poor
and extends her hands to the needy.
When it snows, she has no fear for her household;
for all of them are clothed in scarlet.
She is clothed with strength and dignity;
she can laugh at the days to come.
She speaks with wisdom,
and faithful instruction is on her tongue.
She watches over the affairs of her beloveds
and does not eat the bread of idleness.
Her neighbors arise and call her blessed;
her family also praises her:
“Many women do noble things,
but you surpass them all.”
Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting;
but a generous woman is to be praised.
Honor her for all that her hands have done,
and let her works bring her praise at the heavenly gate.