Friends – 9 days following my last post, my mom died. I had the honor of delivering her eulogy. Here is what I said:
It was my profound honor to be at the side of my mom, the woman who birthed me, as she took her last breath and ended her journey in this world.
It is now a profound, albeit daunting, honor to give this eulogy in the presence of so many people who knew her and loved her. It feels especially important to thank my brother Tom and sister-in-law Terry who cared for her and my dad so well, giving them a home during their last season of life. You gave her a home that teemed with life, with family, with grandchildren, with Allison and Paul and Margot, more recently with Tami. Moreover, you provided a gathering place for our scattered family. We are so grateful.
95 years is a lot of years. Last spring, I said to mom “Think about it Mom! We throw away toasters after 15 years, refrigerators after 25, you’re 95!! You’re amazing – so much better than a toaster!” My mom wasn’t impressed.
When I think about the span of my mom’s life, two pictures come to mind.
The first one is the only picture we have of when she was a baby, probably around a year old. The photo is black and white, and the baby is looking straight at the camera, short brown curls framing a round face with sparkling eyes and a big smile. The second picture is a picture of my mom on the day before she died. She looks tiny in a hospital bed at Advent House. My brothers and I surround her as she gives us orders so that she doesn’t look too awful for the picture. Little binds those two pictures together – except the eyes. The sparkling eyes are the same.
So many stories, so many years, and so many photographs stand between those two pictures. Truth is, none of us knew the Polly of the early stories. For Baby Polly, firstborn to Stanley and Cyrena Ruth Kolodinski became a little girl with a fierce drive that set the course of her life. Those early years are best characterized by “I’ll show you!” That was the Polly who was in junior high school and talked about going to college. “Hmph!” said her Polish father. “What does a girl need with college?”
Polly didn’t talk back. She just determined in her heart that she would show her father. On her graduation from Gordon college, he was the proudest man in the room.
It was during this period of her life when she heard a large man with a strong Swedish accent speak about missionary work in the country of India. Her heart responded and she made up her mind right then that she would be a missionary. She didn’t have a clue what all that meant, but the fierce determination embedded in her response was real.
The little girl Polly became a young woman who walked back from the Fenway area of Boston one summer night, starry-eyed from her first kiss with Ralphie, the brown-haired, blue-eyed college student who had captured her heart. When her girlfriends excitedly asked if he had held her hand, she looked at them and said “Hmmhmm” – clearly she was not one to kiss and tell. We know the end of that story.
A few years later, she stood on the deck of a ship, looking young and sophisticated, wearing white gloves, a fashionable hat, and pearls around her neck. No one would guess looking at her that she was headed to the country of Pakistan, a place she had never been, to serve a God she had begun to love as a little girl. Polly was on her way to bear witness to the incarnational love of Jesus.
She writes of leaving the shores of New York in her first book Jars of Clay: (Read page 7 paragraph one)
And so they did.
Pakistan became home and ten thousand stories were lived that included five kids, many different homes, studying and speaking two languages, learning to love well, entering the courtyards and lives of Muslim friends and neighbors, finding an extended family of fellow missionaries and Pakistani Christians that went far beyond borders, and walking with God when there was light and during the dark tragedies of life.
The thread woven through the story is the thread of faith, and no matter at what stage or story you met Polly, you would soon learn of that thread. You would learn of a faith that took her to Pakistan and back, a faith that sustained her during deeply lonely times in Pakistan, where family and familiarity were an ocean away. A faith that saw her through every age and stage of her life. A faith that continually led her to repentance and grace. And a faith that was challenged in these past couple years and months.
If you met my mom in more recent years, you knew her in the winter of her life. You met her during a time when she could no longer serve others in the way she longed for. Instead, she had to call on others to help her. For in recent years, she struggled. She struggled with feeling invisible. She struggled with the feeling she had outlived her usefulness. She struggled to trust God with a body that was no longer serving her well. And she had an increasing ache of homesickness for her forever home. The thread of faith I think sometimes felt thin to her, like it might not hold the weight of aging. Roles were reversed as instead of her encouraging us to stay strong in the faith, it was us encouraging her. Her faith was buoyed through visits for yummy desserts at Phillips European with her dear friend Peggy. It was buoyed through times with her dear JoMarcia, her nurse but so much more. It was buoyed by the family and faith family that loved her.
At 9:40 pm on Sunday, November 5th, she ended her journey.
And today we say a public and formal goodbye to Pauline Alice Brown – wife, mother of five, mother-in-law, grandmother of seventeen, matriarch to a multitude and counting of great grandchildren, friend and mentor to many, storyteller and writer, sustained by and through faith.
My mom once said that she was sorry that she and my dad were not leaving her kids anything, nothing “of value”. I looked at her in astonishment. “Not leaving us anything? Are you kidding? You’ve given us everything we need and more.”
On her bedside stand was the true evidence of what Mom left us for it was there that I found index cards with the names of every family member, prayers that she daily prayed for us. I found a prayer list two pages long with names of so many of you who are in this room. My mom’s legacy is here in this room and beyond. Her obedience, love, and honor of God extend through the generations.
So, tell them – tell them the stories of Polly and her God. Tell them the stories of family and faith, of who God is and what he has done, for the God who held her stories for all those years, holds all of ours.