Good morning. Before I begin, I want to take the opportunity, on behalf of our entire family, to thank all of you for being here today—in person, in this beautiful, old church that our mom loved so much, or virtually—to help us celebrate our mom’s life. We’d like to thank everyone who travelled from out of state to be here today, including those on our dad’s side of the family who traveled from as far away as California. Let that sink in for a second—there are people here today who flew from warm, sunny California. To Chicago. In February. To attend the funeral of an in-law, essentially. Now, I know they came in part to support our dad in his time of grief, but I think it really speaks to the impact our mom had on people.

And that’s been evident as well in the flood of messages we’ve received since Mom passed, which have come not just from close friends and family, as you’d expect, but from those who worked with her briefly decades ago, those who met her only recently—including members... Read more of the Breakers community in Edgewater, where our parents have lived the past couple of years—from friends (and friends of friends) of my sisters and mine who may have met her only once at one of our weddings years ago. So many have reached out with a kind note, a memory, a heartfelt message about how our mom affected them. As everyone here can attest, to meet Mom was to know instantly what a beautiful person she was, inside and out; a kind, caring soul; sharp, funny, and fun to be around; someone who brightened the lives of all those around her.

I heard it said recently that grief is simply unexpressed love. The moral, I think, is that grief isn’t something we should avoid or try to overcome, but something we should embrace. If grief really is just a reflection of the love we feel for the person we lost, then we should hope to always feel some measure of grief for our departed loved ones. I like that sentiment; I think there’s some wisdom there, and perhaps some solace for those of us who are grieving our mom’s loss so deeply still.

But it got me thinking about that notion of "unexpressed love." Unexpressed love: that was a foreign concept to Mom. Like our dad, she never missed an opportunity to tell my sisters and I how much she loved us, how proud she was of us, how happy we made her, how lucky she was to be our mom. And we always reciprocated—in person, on the phone, over text (including, in recent years, through liberal use of heart emojis in any text with Mom). Now, I don’t know whether that has lessened our grief any, but I do know that I speak for my sisters, our dad, our Aunt Mary Kay, and everyone who was on the other end of those exchanges with Mom, when I say that we are incredibly grateful for each of those moments, each of those expressions of love that my mom would simply not let go unexpressed.

It was in that spirit that I set out some time ago to put down in writing exactly what my mom meant to me—an impossible task, to be sure. I regret deeply that I didn’t finish it before she passed, but I’m grateful I can share it here today with her and with all of you. I initially intended for it to be a poem, as that’s the language that she loved best, but I’m afraid I didn’t inherit her poetic voice (or talents). So I ended up with something else, I’m not sure what exactly. But I call it, “My Mother’s Son.”


My Mother’s Son

I knew it was coming, every time I would visit Mom at work—usually to ask for money for the movies or to pick up the car to meet friends or for some other equally important reason—never just to say hi, or ask about her day, or tell her how much I loved her. (There would always be time for that later, right?)

“You must be Julie’s son!”

It was probably my nose or the shape of my face; perhaps the hazel eyes or brown, curly hair.

At first, I was annoyed. I didn’t want to resemble a short, middle-aged woman—beautiful though she was—and rued the fact that I didn’t inherit a chiseled jawline or muscular physique instead. So I usually just smiled sheepishly.

But beyond an amusement at the resemblance, there was something else evident in their tone. “You must be Julie’s son!” The front desk staff, her fellow nurses, the doctors and residents, the custodial workers—they always made sure to tell me how much they loved working with Mom—how kind and skilled she was with patients, how supportive and generous she was with colleagues. They were quick with an anecdote or an expression of admiration.

Eventually, I came to embrace the comparisons—proudly wrapping my arm around her (and sometimes giving her a playful pat on top of her head, which by then came up only to my chest) whenever a new friend, colleague, or stranger remarked on the resemblance.

In her later years, as her health declined and the Parkinson’s loomed like a storm cloud growing nearer and more ominous by the day, I would reflect often on the connection I shared with my mom, on what it meant to be her son. Apart from any physical traits she may have passed down, I knew she would be leaving for her children and grandchildren something truly precious and rare. Something that couldn’t be simply inherited, but would need to be earned—brought to fruition through the countless small acts and daily decisions that make up a person’s life. Now that she has passed, and I think about the man I strive to be for my own family—for my wife, Sarah, and our daughter, Tessa, who will grow up without having truly known her Ama—I find in my mom’s legacy a clarion call, a beacon guiding my way, a pledge I must continually renew:

I will be kind to friends and strangers alike—especially the less fortunate, the marginalized, and the forgotten among us.
I will be generous with my time, energy, and resources, and will commit to causes greater than myself.
I will laugh, loud and often.
My patience will know no bounds.
I will smile constantly and exude warmth so that others are uplifted even when I’m down.
I will be selfless and unfailingly loyal.
I will not swoon at the sight of blood, but will swoon over a mariachi band (or really any live music).
I will create.
I will nurture.
I will dance with enthusiasm.
I will be open to all things, and constantly seek out new adventures, foods, cultures, and people.
I will find happiness in the simple things, and peace in nature.
When my health fails me or curveballs inevitably come my way, I will put on a brave face to spare my loved ones their worry, and will fight with a strength and tenacity that will make them proud.
I will laugh some more, through everything.
I will be grateful for all that I have been given.
I will love, and be loved, and the world will be a richer, better place for my having been here.

I will, I pray, truly and forever be my mother’s son. Read less

Good morning. Before I begin, I want to take the opportunity, on behalf of our entire family, to thank all of you for being here today—in person, in this beautiful, old church that our mom loved so much, or virtually—to help us celebrate our mom’s life. We’d like to thank everyone who travelled from out of state to be here today, including those on our dad’s side of the family who traveled from as far away as California. Let that sink in for a second—there are people here today who flew from warm,... Read more sunny California. To Chicago. In February. To attend the funeral of an in-law, essentially. Now, I know they came in part to support our dad in his time of grief, but I think it really speaks to the impact our mom had on people.

And that’s been evident as well in the flood of messages we’ve received since Mom passed, which have come not just from close friends and family, as you’d expect, but from those who worked with her briefly decades ago, those who met her only recently—including members of the Breakers community in Edgewater, where our parents have lived the past couple of years—from friends (and friends of friends) of my sisters and mine who may have met her only once at one of our weddings years ago. So many have reached out with a kind note, a memory, a heartfelt message about how our mom affected them. As everyone here can attest, to meet Mom was to know instantly what a beautiful person she was, inside and out; a kind, caring soul; sharp, funny, and fun to be around; someone who brightened the lives of all those around her.

I heard it said recently that grief is simply unexpressed love. The moral, I think, is that grief isn’t something we should avoid or try to overcome, but something we should embrace. If grief really is just a reflection of the love we feel for the person we lost, then we should hope to always feel some measure of grief for our departed loved ones. I like that sentiment; I think there’s some wisdom there, and perhaps some solace for those of us who are grieving our mom’s loss so deeply still.

But it got me thinking about that notion of "unexpressed love." Unexpressed love: that was a foreign concept to Mom. Like our dad, she never missed an opportunity to tell my sisters and I how much she loved us, how proud she was of us, how happy we made her, how lucky she was to be our mom. And we always reciprocated—in person, on the phone, over text (including, in recent years, through liberal use of heart emojis in any text with Mom). Now, I don’t know whether that has lessened our grief any, but I do know that I speak for my sisters, our dad, our Aunt Mary Kay, and everyone who was on the other end of those exchanges with Mom, when I say that we are incredibly grateful for each of those moments, each of those expressions of love that my mom would simply not let go unexpressed.

It was in that spirit that I set out some time ago to put down in writing exactly what my mom meant to me—an impossible task, to be sure. I regret deeply that I didn’t finish it before she passed, but I’m grateful I can share it here today with her and with all of you. I initially intended for it to be a poem, as that’s the language that she loved best, but I’m afraid I didn’t inherit her poetic voice (or talents). So I ended up with something else, I’m not sure what exactly. But I call it, “My Mother’s Son.”


My Mother’s Son

I knew it was coming, every time I would visit Mom at work—usually to ask for money for the movies or to pick up the car to meet friends or for some other equally important reason—never just to say hi, or ask about her day, or tell her how much I loved her. (There would always be time for that later, right?)

“You must be Julie’s son!”

It was probably my nose or the shape of my face; perhaps the hazel eyes or brown, curly hair.

At first, I was annoyed. I didn’t want to resemble a short, middle-aged woman—beautiful though she was—and rued the fact that I didn’t inherit a chiseled jawline or muscular physique instead. So I usually just smiled sheepishly.

But beyond an amusement at the resemblance, there was something else evident in their tone. “You must be Julie’s son!” The front desk staff, her fellow nurses, the doctors and residents, the custodial workers—they always made sure to tell me how much they loved working with Mom—how kind and skilled she was with patients, how supportive and generous she was with colleagues. They were quick with an anecdote or an expression of admiration.

Eventually, I came to embrace the comparisons—proudly wrapping my arm around her (and sometimes giving her a playful pat on top of her head, which by then came up only to my chest) whenever a new friend, colleague, or stranger remarked on the resemblance.

In her later years, as her health declined and the Parkinson’s loomed like a storm cloud growing nearer and more ominous by the day, I would reflect often on the connection I shared with my mom, on what it meant to be her son. Apart from any physical traits she may have passed down, I knew she would be leaving for her children and grandchildren something truly precious and rare. Something that couldn’t be simply inherited, but would need to be earned—brought to fruition through the countless small acts and daily decisions that make up a person’s life. Now that she has passed, and I think about the man I strive to be for my own family—for my wife, Sarah, and our daughter, Tessa, who will grow up without having truly known her Ama—I find in my mom’s legacy a clarion call, a beacon guiding my way, a pledge I must continually renew:

I will be kind to friends and strangers alike—especially the less fortunate, the marginalized, and the forgotten among us.
I will be generous with my time, energy, and resources, and will commit to causes greater than myself.
I will laugh, loud and often.
My patience will know no bounds.
I will smile constantly and exude warmth so that others are uplifted even when I’m down.
I will be selfless and unfailingly loyal.
I will not swoon at the sight of blood, but will swoon over a mariachi band (or really any live music).
I will create.
I will nurture.
I will dance with enthusiasm.
I will be open to all things, and constantly seek out new adventures, foods, cultures, and people.
I will find happiness in the simple things, and peace in nature.
When my health fails me or curveballs inevitably come my way, I will put on a brave face to spare my loved ones their worry, and will fight with a strength and tenacity that will make them proud.
I will laugh some more, through everything.
I will be grateful for all that I have been given.
I will love, and be loved, and the world will be a richer, better place for my having been here.

I will, I pray, truly and forever be my mother’s son. Read less