I couldn’t bring myself to do my Dad’s eulogy last year at his funeral Mass, but our son was kind enough to deliver one (and did a great job). However, when my mom passed away this year, I knew that I was the only one who could share her life story at her funeral Mass. Here are the words that I delivered…
Being of good Irish stock, I always thought that if my career as an author didn’t work out, I would make a great professional mourner. If anyone ever needs someone to cry with them, I’m the girl to call. That said, I swore I’d never deliver a eulogy. But here I am.
Of all the people in my mom’s life, I’d say I knew her best—I spent my first 16 years with her, and the last three decades with her. My mom, Jacqueline Bigelow Purcell, was born near the end of the Depression to a teen mother who’d left school after 8th grade to help her parents, who were sharecroppers on a farm in Michigan. Her family certainly wasn’t rich. In fact, Mom grew up with an outhouse in the backyard; she never lived in a house with flush toilets until she left home after high school. But her parents were generous. I remember hearing about a neighbor who was an alcoholic and drank away his pay. His kids were often hungry, and my grandma would feed them whenever they came looking for food. My grandparents didn’t always have money to buy Christmas gifts, so once a year the family would attend Christmas Eve services at a local Baptist church, where every child received an orange and a handful of hard candy. Mom carried that spirit of generosity with her throughout her life.
In high school, Mom played the clarinet and chose to attend a racially diverse high school because she wanted to be a member of their band program. That decision allowed her to travel with the band to New York City and Niagara Falls. She attended reunions with her classmates for 60 years.
She met my dad, Kieran, on a dance floor when he was stationed at an Air Force base in Upper Michigan. They were married in August of 1958, and by July of 1962, they had three children under 3. In those early days, money was tight, but Mom made our home warm and happy. She cooked wonderful meals, created crafts and clothes by hand, and somehow made ordinary days special.
Recently, I found my old diaries, and reading them made me realize just how much of my childhood revolved around my mom. I went to her softball and volleyball games. We went shopping and made crafts together. We watched television with my older brothers Gordon and Rodney—a lot of television, considering there were only three channels at the time—including our Saturday-night tradition of popcorn and orange juice while watching The Carol Burnett Show.
Every morning before school, because Mom was definitely not a morning person, I would start the coffee percolator for her. Gordon tells me that he remembers doing that, too. I’m guessing Rod did, as well. I can still picture her sitting at the dining room table with her three-ring binder, keeping track of bills and gift ideas, with a cup of coffee nearby. Funny story: as her memory failed her, she forgot how to make coffee and didn’t have any for quite a while. One day she asked her caregiver for a cup of coffee. She took one drink and said, “This tastes like old shoe leather. How can anyone drink this stuff?” What can I say, it’s an acquired taste!
I learned how to be a lady and a good mother simply by watching my mom. She had style. She dressed up every outfit with jewelry and a scarf and rarely went out without lipstick. For special nights out with Dad, she would put on what she jokingly called her “war paint”—blue eyeshadow with mascara on her perfectly curled eyelashes.
Mom was honest, sometimes to a fault, and she had a wonderful sense of humor. She was an amazing gift giver. When one of us kids had a birthday, the other two got a gift, too. She never made us eat something we didn’t like. And she didn’t believe in grounding her children. Her philosophy was, “Why would I want to spend all day cooped up inside with someone I’m annoyed with?”
After my parents divorced, Mom moved back to Michigan and then Alabama, and when John’s mom was dying of cancer, she came back to Wisconsin. For the last 28 years, I’ve had the joy and honor of having my mom nearby. And for the last nine years, I’ve had the privilege—and sometimes the challenge—of caring for her and making decisions on her behalf.
It seems especially appropriate that Mom died in the fall, because fall was always her favorite season. Every year, when the first gloomy fall day arrived, Mom would pull out her Reader’s Digest Christmas records and start playing Christmas music. And she kept playing it through January. Christmas was her favorite holiday. She didn’t need expensive gifts or a fancy dinner to make Christmas special. She simply had a gift for making people feel loved.
Mom wasn’t religious, but she had a deep sense of faith. She kept a tiny Infant of Prague statue on her jewelry box, one that had belonged to her great-grandmother. Even though she didn’t know the significance of the statue, she knew it was baby Jesus. On December 12, 2021, I had the honor of being at Mom’s side when she became a full member of the Catholic Church and received the sacraments of Confession and Confirmation.
And in the final months of her life, Mom was lovingly cared for in the Memory Care Wing at St. Paul Elder Services, where she had the opportunity to attend daily Mass and was surrounded by people who cared for her deeply.
At 8:23 on the morning of September 1, Mom took her last breath, with John at her side. And the words of one of her favorite songs became her reality. “Prepare yourself, you know it’s a must, gotta have a friend in Jesus, so you know that when you die, He’s gonna recommend you to the Spirit in the sky. When you die, and they lay you to rest, you’re gonna go to the place that’s the best.”
Mom, Mama, Mumsy, Mamasita, I hope you’re enjoying the “place that’s the best.” Save a spot for us; I pray that one day, we’ll all be there together with you. Love you!