Stronger than death

If I wanted to give you some idea of the centrality of my mother's place in my family, I would start by telling you that three of her eight grandchildren are named after her: when it came time to have our own children, every one of Mother's children chose to do that.

One of those namesakes is my first child, Astrid Julia Crenshaw Shivers. I was speaking to this child of mine about her grandmother just two days ago, when I picked her up from her Thursday afternoon martial arts class.

The thing about my child's martial arts studies is that, because she is so much taller than the other children in her class, she is consistently matched up with the sensei's daughter. With predictable results.

So my child was feeling a little dejected and defeated—literally defeated—after practice on Thursday. Now, in my family, when you need a resupply of determination, we invoke the grandmother.

So I said to my daughter: Sweetheart, let me tell you something about yourself, and your inheritance. Your grandmother, whose name you carry, was the most extraordinary woman I have ever known. And you are connected to her by more than a name. You are the child of her child. Her blood flows in your veins. That means that you have it within you to be extraordinary yourself, to do great things. But only if you are willing to approach life with the same determination and will power that your grandmother applied to everything she did. If you can do that, you will be like your grandmother: an irresistable force. Remember that, as you grow into your life. When you meet someone and tell them your name, you aren't just telling them how to address you. You are telling them who you are. And what you are.

Now, that's a slightly heavy message to lay on a six year old. But that's OK. I'm patient; it's not the last time she's going to hear it. (It wasn't the first time, either.)

I was thinking about this conversation I had with my daughter when I was thinking about what to say today. Because that is one of my mother's most salient characteristics: she had the strongest will of any human I've ever known. Over and over in my life, I saw her do things that were impossible. Things that, to me, seemed superhuman. Things that she did not have the resources to accomplish, she would see through to completion simply based on force of will. She did not take no for an answer, she did not make excuses, and she did not acknowledge defeat.

So I would like to know, now, before I go on: how many people here were ever witness to something of that sort, involving my mother? If you ever, at some point in your life, saw the implacable resolve that lay behind my mother's brilliant smile and delighted laugh, raise your hand.

[pause]

Right. I could tell you stories about that all day long. But you already know these stories. So I have decided to tell a smaller story. And I'll warn you in advance that not much happens in it. But the topic is large—it's the story of my first encounter with the infinite.

When I was 3 years old, my mother and my grandmother took me and my older sister to the beach. We went to Pawley's Island or St. Simon's (I can't remember which—my record keeping in those days was not all one might wish), and we stayed in a house on the beach. This was over 50 years ago, but when I recall it, it is like a movie in my mind. There was sand scattered on the porch, and a few shovels and pails, on their sides, waiting to be used for making sand castles.

My mother took me down to the beach. Growing up in Atlanta, I was used to having trees break up the horizon; here, the sky went all the way down to the horizon, a gigantic bowl overhead, a perfect, perfectly even, light blue Georgia summer sky.

And then I saw the ocean, and my mind was blown. It opened out and out and went on forever. The image you have to have in your mind is this tiny little three year old standing on this beach, in front of the infinite ocean. The idea that there could be an object that size was incomprehensible to me. So I stood there in shock for quite a while, just looking at the ocean.

At this point, it was made known to me that the next item on the agenda for the day was walking out into the ocean. I was three. I was very small. The ocean was very large. There was no barrier to keep you from disappearing out into its expanse. You could simply walk out into it and keep going, and never come back. I could see that it got progressively deeper as it went out—a lot deeper than I was tall. Going out into that was a flat-out terrifying idea.

But I was not afraid. Because my mother was with me. She held my hand, and we walked out into the ocean. My mother sat down in the surf and made a sort of breakwater with her body. I stood in the protective lee she made, and knew that I was completely, utterly safe. From the safety of my mother's arms, I was able to contemplate the ocean, and even to be in the ocean without the slightest bit of fear.

Afterward, Mother took me by the hand and we walked back to the house. I remember feeling dizzy from the mental overload of what I had experienced.

That happened a long time ago—at a time when I was a child. Later, I grew up and became a man. But that feeling of safety, of having my mother's protection, never ceased. No matter how old I was, no matter what I was doing, or where I was, I have always had that. There were times in my life that I was literally living on the other side of the planet. Didn't matter.

And it was not just me. All my life, I saw my mother take care of others. So, here is my second question: I would like to know how many people here know, from personal experience with my mother, the feeling that I have just described. If you have ever had the experience of knowing that, whatever darkness had entered your life, whatever difficulty or challenge was troubling you, that you were not meeting it alone, because my mother was there with you. If you were ever at the focus of that loving heart, raise your hand.

[pause]

If I were a fancier person, I would describe this with an expression like “a lifetime legacy of service.” But I'm not that fancy, and the way it seemed to me, when I saw her do these things for others, was just that she was being a mom—caring for others. Being a mother was her nature, and her glory. And she was at her best in the company of small children, who soaked up her love like rainfall on flowers. It was not something she did; it was what she was. I wouldn't say that it came easy for her—some of the things she did for others were wrenchingly difficult. Rather, I would say that it came naturally for her—it was as natural for my mother as breathing.

All of this crystallised for me, one day, much later in my life, as I was having lunch with my uncle. We were talking about my mother, and he said, You know, your mother loves you stronger than death.

I had three immediate reactions, all at the same time, piled on top of one another, when he said that. First, I thought about his language. My uncle is a pretty sophisticated guy: he wrote a doctoral dissertation in a foreign language, has lived all over the world, has done a lot and seen a lot. However, he is a son of the South, and when he speaks of matters of consequence, he speaks in the idiom of the South. So I remarked upon the colorful, Southern expression he'd used.

But at the same time, I knew what I'd heard was not simply a colorful bit of hyperbole. I knew that this that my uncle had said—this was simple truth. So, my second reaction was, D'uh. I knew that. Fact.

Here is my third reaction: sometimes you know a large truth, but you have not put a shape to it, until someone comes along and articulates it for you: you are handed a phrase or a sentence, and the moment you hear those words, this truth that you knew suddenly snaps into focus. You see it with complete clarity.

That's what happened for me that day. And that's where I am going with this story. And I expect that by this point in my story you have probably already figured out that when I said it was about my encounter with the infinite, I was not speaking about something so small as an ocean.

Now that we're here, I'll say where we are. I'm going to finish with two statements. I'll say them, but I think anyone here could say them, for yourself. And, if you raised your hand earlier, then, in fact, you already have.

My mother loved me, and this is what has propelled me forward, sustained me, and lifted me up, all my life.

My mother loves me, and this is what has made it possible for me to get up in the morning and put one foot in front of the other this past week.

Stronger than death.