Dear
Brothers and Sisters, Family and Friends,
Over the
past few days, I’ve been reading through the many letters that my mother sent
me over the years, particularly the thick stack she sent me while I lived and
worked for two years as a missionary in Japan. I also read through her most recent journal –
an amalgam of letters to various family members and friends interspersed with
reflections on life and family. They
are precious to me – because they reflect the kind of person my mother was, and
they are, for the time being, some of the few, tangible reminders of her that
we have to hold onto.
* * * *
Nearly
ten years ago, my mother wrote in a letter to me the following description of
her life. If you listen carefully to the
words, she might as well be speaking to each of us here today, telling us that
she is grateful for the life that she was able to live, and reassuring us that
everything is okay:
September
3, 1991. Life is very good for me,
Tim. I love each child born to us. I have a wonderful husband. The Gospel has filled my life with purpose
and joy, and I always have twelve or more things waiting for me to do that I
really enjoy doing. I feel so grateful
for education, for modern conveniences that have freed me from drudgery, and
for the endless beauty of the earth. I
hope life is good in the same way for you and for each of your brothers and
sisters. I am very glad that to be alive
and to have lived. I have felt the
direction and comfort of the Lord along the way. I have an assurance of truth that carries me
through difficulties. What more could
life give anyone?
Mom was
never bored with life – never. Growing
up, she was always dabbling in something:
toll painting, Spanish Classes, gardening, cheesemaking, and various and
sundry experiments in self-sufficiency.
As a child, I got up in the cold to milk goats, I shoveled manure,
weeded in the garden – all of us children did -- not because there was any
pressing economic need, but because Mom wanted to build “character” and teach self-sufficiency.
My
mother loved living, growing things. She
loved animals of all kinds. We’ve had
dogs ranging from a Chihuahua
to a St. Bernard, countless cats, goats, ducks, chickens, geese -- even guinea
hens. She dreamed of retiring to a farm
in the country where she could raise Merino sheep. Her gardens were her pride and joy—not for
any aesthetic reason but because they burst with life and bounty. She spent roughly six months a year – from
October to March – getting the soil just perfect: adding compost and manure and pitchforking it
in until you’d sink deep into the soil with each step. Then, when spring arrived, she would plant
her seeds and sit back to watch the fireworks.
My most
vivid memories of my mother involve her doing things, because Mom was
all about doing. Forget planning or
organizing, Mom just wanted to go out and do
it, whatever it was: touring about Amish
country, picking up seashells on the beach, making fudge on a heavy marble
slab, cooking meals for someone, digging in her garden--whatever need arose,
or, when she had a minute to spare, whatever struck her fancy.
In a
letter to my Grandmother, dated October 23, 1997, she wrote the following:
Dear Mom: The
other day I was wondering what impact I would have on my children. I decided that really the only impact I can
have is the same as the impact others have had on me. It is never what people preach about, is
it? Each person's legacy comes from the
things that person has loved and given his or her life to. Those loves leave an indelible impression.
My
mother’s loves have left an indelible impression on her family and all those
who knew her well.
I begin
with her love of nature. Mother often
began her letters by talking about the weather.
But these were not your run-of-the-mill “it’s rainy here” kind of fillers; rather, they were poetic
expressions of the changing seasons and the miracle of life and creation.
October
8, 1990. Dear Tim: This is a beautiful morning. I walked Katie to school and enjoyed every
second of it. Huge mushrooms were
growing under the evergreens alongside the path—as big as Katie’s head. At first, I thought they were little bird
baths placed there by someone, because they formed cups about the size of a
bird bath. The colors are getting brighter
everyday in the maples and sweet gum trees, and the grasses are still
green. Poison ivy is especially
beautiful right now. We live in a sea of
it. . . .
I’ve been thinking this morning about how good it has always felt to me to go
outside. I don’t think I’ve changed in
all the years. If I can play outside,
everything gets better fast. If there’s
nothing great to look at on the ground, the sky is always interesting. The trees are wonderful, dead or alive. Every grass, every weed presents wonderful
patterns, interesting designs. Every bug
is Star Wars material.
Mom had
a wonderful eye for nature: she loved
toads and toadstools, bats and beetles, mice and mushrooms – you name it. She had a particular gift for noticing things
that others would pass by, and describing things in a way that reflected a keen
sense of observation.
July
22, 1996. Dear Peter: Dad introduced me to “toad talk” the other
night. You know those toads that live in
the window well? Dad turned the basement
light on for them. Two were standing
side by side on their hind legs looking in the window, arm in arm, looking very
human and making toad sounds--one an almost imperceptible bass, and the other
chirping a little like a hen. They
didn’t seem to mind that we were watching.
June
22, 1999. Dear Jim and Cheryl: My dream right now--only a dream--is to
create a pond in that sink hole out back.
Glenn, of course, thinks I am crazy.
We wouldn't have to do much digging.
It gets deeper every year. . .
. Think of it! We could have our own bullfrogs and toads
galore! Some of my little piano students
told me they had bullfrogs in their back yard.
I didn't believe them until I went over to Dunloggin to see. They certainly do! Their big problem with the small pond they
created is that as soon as their goldfish get big, a great blue heron flies
down for supper. They are trying a fake
white egret to scare him off, but I don't think he'll be fooled. The
goldfish are growing fat again.
Mom
loved little creatures, and was particularly fond of field mice and
squirrels. After my Dad found two
white-footed field mice cowering in an aluminum garbage can in the garage, my
mother took them over to show Paula Burr and her son, who were living next
door. The mice had taken shelter in a
little plastic scoop in the bottom of the can.
December
2, 1996. Dear Peter: I showed the mice to Paula and her little boy
by lifting up the plastic scoop and walking out onto the driveway. They were frightened at first and hid their
eyes, curling up in two quivering brown balls.
Then they became lively and looked as though they would jump out onto
the driveway. I was afraid a crow would
scoop them up, so I tried to keep them in the cup as I bent down toward the
ground. One jumped out into a pile of
leaves, but the other started up my arm.
I could feel him on the back of my hand all soft and warm. I told him not to run up my arm, but he did
anyway--and then onto my back and up my neck and into my hair. When I put my head down to the ground, he finally
jumped off into the leaves. I think they
knew we didn’t mean to hurt them. Little
Patrick (age four) got a big bang out of the whole thing. I was still in my nightgown, shivering in my
bare feet.
While I
was away in college, my mother found an injured baby squirrel and nursed it
back to health.
September
5, 1993. Dear Tim: We have a new baby at home. For the first few days we called it Samuel
Moroni Hawkes, but my brother Alan told me it had better be Samantha. So, Samantha it is. Cocoa
[our cat] found a squirrel that had obviously fallen from its nest in one of
the trees in the neighborhood. I heard
its pathetic cry. When it cried the
second time, I couldn’t stand it and ran out to see what it was. Cocoa
had bitten it, and it had an abrasion on its tummy. I was sure it would die, so I wrapped it up
and put it in a quiet corner of my bedroom.
At bedtime, I found it still alive and wished it would go peacefully. As we were falling asleep, it made a pathetic
sound like a nuzzling pup. Dad said,
“Mary Jane, it’s hungry. You’ve got to
feed that thing.” I was doubtful that
food would do anything but kill it, but I got up and fixed baby pablum with
honey and a little canola oil. I
expected it to be dead by morning.
Instead, it was ravenous. I went
to the pet store and bought milk for newborn puppies. It smells like liquid vitamins, but it seems
to have done the trick. So far, so good.
… It’s wounds seem to be healing without infection. Amazing.
Eventually,
Samantha became a part of the family. My
mother described the bittersweet occasion of releasing her into the wild in a
subsequent letter to a family friend.
October
6, 1993. Dear Wendy: Our little squirrel has just spent its fourth
night outside in a tree somewhere. So,
this year, I dread owls and winter.
After six years of living here, I heard two owls in the early morning
darkness. I woke from a sound sleep when
I heard them. I keep checking the
squirrel nests in the trees and wondering how that pile of dry leaves can keep
a little thing like our squirrel warm and dry.
It became such a darling pet before we took it outside. We watched it pull its tail up like a blanket
over its face. We watched it yawn and
stretch in the morning. It even lifted
its arm to be scratched underneath when we scratched its tummy. The first three days we put it outside, it
came to us again at night to sleep inside.
Finally, it didn't return . . . .
Mother
was a nurturer. She loved babies, and
puppies, and helping things grow. She
loved all creatures – great and small – unless, of course, they were eating her
garden.
July
21, 1995. I had a beautiful clump of
squash growing on the corner of the garden until some wild animal came in the
night and nibbled away all the youngest and greenest leaves and quite a few of
the blossoms. I think it was a wood
chuck. It also ate most of the pole
beans that had begun to climb in the other garden. This morning, I bought 4 lbs of dried blood
and scattered it around all the plants in hopes that the wild rabbits would
have nightmares when they smelled it and leave our plants alone.
May
28, 1999. Dear Ben: I love the crow shooter Peter set up for
me. He fixed up a cardboard roll that is
as thick as wood. It is perfect for
shooting bottle rockets. The rockets I am shooting now don't whistle, but the
crows get the message just the same.
They are staying away much better.
Trouble is, yesterday morning I got up at 6 a.m. and aimed my bottle
rocket out the [sliding glass door].
When it shot off, a slight breeze coming in from the deck blew some
black powder onto my nightgown and set it on fire. I now have a nice hole in my yellow
gown. Luckily, I looked down in time to
put out the flames. Also luckily, it
wasn't a terrifically flammable material, or I wouldn't be laughing about this
story.
Mom was
never afraid to laugh at herself. She
recounted the following story in her journal after a trip to Swallow Creek
Falls in Western
Maryland.
July
8, 1996. Some little boy on the trail in
front of me at Swallow
Falls was kicking up his
heels, jumping around and making his parents nervous. They were trying to restrain him, but he
kicked up to eye level and crowed, "Say goodbye to you!" Dad and I laughed and talked about how thin
we would be if we kept that active. I
used to be able to kick high like that, so I said, "Say goodbye to
you!" and kicked my right foot up high.
Trouble was, my left sandal slipped in the gravel and nothing held me
up. I went down on my petussi right on a
big pointed rock in the path. . . . Couldn't get up for a while. I felt disconnected from my body
somehow--like I was looking out of a box that had rolled down a hill--and I
couldn't stop laughing. . . . My bottom still hurts, but I was lucky. I could have cracked my head on that
rock. Then it really would have been
"Say goodbye to you!"
On a
somewhat different note, my father lived in fear of my mother’s “little”
projects. They always took three times
as long and cost five times as much as she expected. Here’s her effort to sell Jennie on a major
expansion of an existing project:
March
1, 1997. Dear Jennie: [T]he shower is still torn out, but I woke up
this morning with wonderful plans for remodeling the whole bathroom. Dad is
terrified. All I need is a crowbar. You will love this bathroom. It will add to the value of the whole
house! It's similar to the kitchen
remodel--Take out walls. Let in light
and air. Add a tub and tiled floor. We can do it.
We watched a video on doing the floor.
Easy. It just takes work and time
and not that much money.
As many
of you know, my mother loved music, and this love, as with most her loves, was
described in her letters and journals.
Today,
July 19, 1993, is a beautiful summer day, warm and humid. I have just baked some cookie bars, whole
wheat and raisin, brown sugar and almonds, and the house is filled with the
aroma. Katie and her friend Sherrie are
upstairs trying on my make up and perfume and having a wonderful time. Peter, Josh and a boy from France are
playing on the trampoline and squirting each other with a hose, Paddy running
around their feet hopefully, begging them to throw the ball. I have been listening to Andrew Lloyd
Webber's Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, a brazen, irreverent,
wonderful, inspiring musical account of the story of Joseph sold into Egypt. I feel it would offend my mother, but it
makes me laugh and cry and want to dance and dream of the coming of Zion.
This
next entry also reflects a love of music, but more importantly, her love for my
sister Jennie.
November
27, 2000. Dear Jennie: Yesterday, as I was driving home from church,
strings came on the radio. I realized
how long it has been since I have heard some great strings, and a wave of
longing flooded over me. I never dreamed
I would have a daughter who could play like you do. When you went away to college, it was as
though someone precious had died. I
missed the music and all the musical connections. I didn’t want to say that, because it almost
sounds like music and you are one and the same.
It was just an additional bereavement along with your empty room, your
empty desk and bulletin board. I miss
you, Jennie, and the soul of you I feel in your music.
Everyone
knows that my mother loved her family.
She loved each child – all eight of us – unconditionally, and valued
each for our particular strengths and personalities.
October
31, 1991. Dear Nate & Tim: I’m glad to have such children. I love the way you help and encourage one
another. You’ll know someday the joy that
comes into a parent’s heart when there’s love at home. I could imagine no better group in the same
family. We compliment one another and no
two are alike. Toleration for
differences could be better, but I do think we’re learning to love one another
for who were are.
December
2, 1996. Dear Peter: As the years have gone by, Christmas has
taken on new and deeper meanings. At
this stage, of course, the significance of the Savior’s birth and atonement
grows in me. I’m getting older. It means more and more as our family grows,
as my love grows for your father and my own parents and for you children, and
as I see the lives and personalities of my children unfold. For me, the most enduring part of Christmas
as we celebrate it is in the sacred carols.
They carry the joy and awe of his birth.
I also cherish the sweet feelings I have toward all the family as I try
to think of things that would delight each one---and the pain that accompanies
knowing I can’t give every delight.
Mixed into that is the memory of Christmases past--mostly the feeling of
gathering near the tree with loved ones, playing games, enjoying gifts,
listening to sweet music, enjoying life together.
As
I think of all the sweet babies that have come into our home--their precious
personalities and the fun we have had, it almost overwhelms me. I can hardly imagine such rich
blessings. Now I see them being repeated
in grandchildren.
She
loved her grandchildren. She found them
endlessly amusing and loved to watch their little personalities unfold. In her eyes, they could do no wrong, and she
spoiled them without the slightest remorse.
She appreciated each of them as individuals, for their respective
strengths. My children were always so
thrilled to visit “Gam-ma’s house.” It
meant jumping on the trampoline, helping Grandma in the garden, playing on the
tire swing in the basement, and basically just hanging out with Grandma, who
seemed to have endless amounts of time to spend with them and gave them her
full love and attention.
She also
loved our Dad.
October
28, 1990. Dear Tim: It has meant the world to me to be married to
your Dad. I don’t think you kids have a
clear picture of the way I feel about him.
We disagree on many small things, and we approach simple tasks in a
totally different ways. He is so much
more careful and thorough than I am. I
am always impatient to get going and to get done and don’t always take careful
planning into the program. (Somewhere
between the two of us is the truth.) But
where it counts—in the things that mean most—in our foundation, our testimony
of the Gospel, our method of dealing with other people, our love for you kids,
we are perfectly united. More than love
and even more than perfect unity, we have complete trust in each other.
Although it required great effort and placed incredible demands on her time, my mother loved teaching early morning seminary. She took it as a challenge to try and teach spiritual truths to young people in a way they could understand. She thought long and hard about her lessons, and she agonized about her students, particularly when she saw them struggling with tragedies and difficulties in their young lives.
One time, mother was trying to
illustrate how Jesus must feel when we turn our backs on him and reject his
love and sacrifice. She staged an
exchange between her and Katie, who was a student in the class, in which Katie
took a beautiful cake that my mother had prepared for her and threw it into a
trash can. My mother reported in her
journal:
There
was stone silence in the room when she chucked the cake in the trash. . . .
I asked the kids how they felt when Katie threw the cake away. “No cake,” was the reply. “Waste.”
“Sad.” Then I asked, “How would
it have been if I had given everything for Katie—even my life—and she acted
that way? Then I retrieved the cake from
the clean liner that I had placed in trash can.
Miraculously, it was unbroken. I
told them we were lucky to be able to retrieve the gift. It was still there. I frosted it while we talked and then sliced
it up for them. It worked better than I
had expected, except for one boy who mumbled while he was eating his cake,
“Katie shouldn’t EVER treat her mother like that.”
One
hallmark of my mother’s life was her deep and abiding faith. In her journal she returns to this theme time
and time again.
January
1997. To me this whole process is the
greatest evidence for eternal life: Why
the journey--the lives of struggle and learning, always arriving at wisdom
after the experience--coming to know how to run the plays when the game has
ended and often after we’ve lost the game???
It only makes sense if there is more.
There is no evidence in nature of futility. Everything has function and purpose. Should our hard-won understanding be wasted
when our bodies decay? No! This has to be just what we are taught it
is: preparation for more and more and
more. That’s what Christmas means to
me. I believe the story. It’s far crazier than a Star Wars fantasy,
but I believe it.
May 4, 1998. Dear Nathan: [The] idea of testimony once seemed
complicated to me and now seems much simpler.
Sometimes, it seems as simple as gratitude--the ability to acknowledge
divine purpose and order in all creation with a full and thankful heart--the
joy of being alive, running, swimming, seeing, hearing, loving--the joy of
seashells and stones, of colored fruit from the brown earth--rainbows in the
air.
January 4, 1999. The Lord has provided
so much for us. In our abundance, we
have become thoughtless--even offensive.
. . . It seems to me we have two
duties: to remember the source of our blessings and to share them.
Finally,
I want to share with you some of my mother’s thoughts on the resurrection –
thoughts that have been a great comfort to me as I’ve struggled to come to
terms with my mother’s sudden death.
The
first journal entry describes some of the final days Mom spent with her own
mother, who died of cancer roughly two years ago. Mom was able to travel to Utah for the final few weeks of
grandmother’s life and to care for her up until she died. Not surprisingly, during that period, my
mother reflected on fundamental questions of life, death, and the promise of
resurrection.
March
24, 1999. I gave Mama’s little skeleton
a backrub just before bed one night, and when I knelt for my prayer, the
contours of her wasted body seemed to be still under my hands. I was heart broken and searching for
comfort. I thanked the Lord for the atonement. I’ve studied it so many times, thought about
it occasionally, but don’t remember ever wanting it to be a reality more than I
did as I thought about Mama’s precious body wasting away a few feet from
me. As I prayed those words of
gratitude, I was enveloped in that feeling best described as flames of
fire. Delicious warmth filled every part
of my being. I felt enveloped and
engulfed in flames. They lingered but
not long enough for me. I would have
liked to have kept that feeling with me.
Those feelings are what I have come to regard as the Comforter, or Holy
Spirit.
Later, after the ordeal of Mama’s physical death, the cold questions crept into
my mind: What if it’s all a story? What if this death is really all there is?
What if all that was my mother has come to a final end? What a leaden, miserable feeling it was. Thankfully, it was brief.
In retrospect, those two
strong memories make an easy choice for me.
I know which of them to believe.
One of them is death, and the other is life. One is cold, and the other is warm. One is false, and the other is true! I believe in the atonement. I believe in resurrection. I believe in eternal life! I thank the Lord! I have been sweetly and personally
comforted. May the Lord help me to keep
that truth and comfort in my life.
The last
journal entry that I wish to share with you comes from a letter sent to one of
my mother’s closest friends, attempting to comfort her after the tragic deaths
of her two young children. Little did
mother know that her letter would eventually comfort her own children as they
struggled to come to grips with her own tragic death. The quote comes from the Teachings of the
Prophet Joseph Smith:
God
ha[s] revealed His Son from the heavens and the doctrine of the resurrection
also; and we have a knowledge that those we bury here God will bring up again,
clothed upon and quickened by the Spirit of the great God; and what mattereth
it whether we lay them down . . . when we can keep them no longer? Let these truths sink down in our hearts,
that we may even here begin to enjoy that which shall be in full hereafter.
I am so
grateful for the knowledge I have, that though my mother’s body goes to the
grave, her spirit lives on still, and some day, sooner or later, I will see her
and embrace her again. In the meantime,
I take comfort and draw strength from the precious memories that I have of
her. Though I miss her dearly, I am so
grateful for the time I had to spend with her, that she was able to touch and
bless our lives in so many ways.
We love
you, Mom.