Friday, May 9, 2003
Friday, May 9, 2003 |
| Mother's
Day without Mom
By DAVID EPPS For the first time in my life, I will observe Mother's Day this year without my mother. My Mom, Thelma Kathleen Luster Epps, died Feb. 24 of this year after a long fight against lung disease and a short stay in the hospital. Her death was not anticipated and, for me, is just now beginning to sink in. My brother and I lost our dad to cancer in September 1996 after a two-year illness. At the end, he was no longer the strong, independent man we had known all our lives and wasn't conscious the last few days. His passing, while sad, was met with a bit of relief because of the suffering he had endured. Beforehand, however, I was able to talk with him by his bedside where he assured me that he was ready to go and had made peace with God. Dad painted over 35 paintings so that family members would receive these last gifts after his death. He left a final note for Mom and enough cash in a safe place so that she would have emergency spending money until she was able to get to the bank. There was a sense of closure, even before he died. Not so with Mom. My brother's family found her collapsed at home and had her rushed to the hospital on a Monday. My brother called me and, even though I had undergone gall bladder surgery the previous Wednesday, I immediately drove the 354 miles to her hospital bed. She seemed to rally about midweek and, Friday night, I drove back home for Sunday services. On Saturday, I received word that she had taken a turn for the worse and, without unpacking my suitcase, I drove back to Kingsport, Tenn. Early Monday morning, with my brother and my youngest son at her bedside, she died. There were no last conversations, no notes left, no tender goodbyes just an emptiness and a sense of loss. I didn't have the time or the luxury to grieve. As in the death of my father, I would preach and officiate at Mom's funeral a few days later, there were funeral arrangements to make, a casket to select, family and friends to notify, and even though she was my mother I had pastoral responsibilities to fulfill. Since then, I have time to think, to reflect, to remember, to shed tears, and to grieve. I had to spend a total three weeks in Tennessee prior to and after her death. As a result, I rediscovered my roots, the beauty of the Tennessee hills, the quaint accent of the local people, the smells, the sights, the culture, my home. I had been away for 23 years except for some brief visits, and much that had faded into the mists of time came flooding back in exquisite memories. My brother and I never knew what it was like not to have Mom at home before and after the school day. Mom cooked the best meals on this side of the Tennessee River, canned vegetables, washed our clothes and hung them on an outside line to dry, taught us both to drive a car, mended our clothes, nursed our scrapes, and made us take our shoes off at the door so we wouldn't "track in" the dirt. She made baloney sandwiches for my friend, Steve, and me when we were little, threatened us with the switch when we were bad, and let us play in the woods until we were so dirty we had to be washed down with a water hose before we were allowed inside. When my first dog, "Butch," a pit bull, died of old age, Mom cried when I cried, even though she couldn't stand dogs. She was by my bedside wiping my forehead when I had pneumonia and she was at the hospital feeding me ice cream after I had my tonsils out. When I was about eleven, I spit on my two-year old brother and she punished me by wiping Tabasco sauce on my tongue. I never spit on anyone again. On the rare times I was able to go fishing with my dad, Mom went along too, although she was much happier never having to touch an earthworm. Even though there was a period of time, when I was in early elementary school, that Dad was out of work for an extended time, we never missed a meal, a Thanksgiving, a birthday, or a Christmas. Though money was tight, Mom was efficiently frugal and, somehow, she and dad paid off the mortgage before I got out of junior high school. She had her flaws, but right now they don't seem to matter much. When I moved to Colorado in late 1980, I started writing Mom and Dad every day, usually sending a colorful post card. For over 23 years, I sent a postcard almost every day from wherever I was, whether in this country or in Canada, Kenya, Uganda, Ireland, or Australia. Now, I wish I had called more frequently, had visited more often, and had sent more flowers. This Sunday will be Mother's Day and I miss my Mom. After 43 and 52 years, respectively, my brother and I are orphans and the ache will just not go away. [David Epps is rector of Christ the King Charismatic Episcopal Church on Ga. Highway 34 between Peachtree City and Newnan. He may be contacted at FatherDavidEpps@aol.com or at www.CTKCEC.org.]
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