When my mother died, I said a rosary.
This is, of course, not newsworthy and if you were raised in a Catholic family, you may even be nodding your head because what else are you going to do when your very devout mother passes away? And of course you have a rosary with you when this happens because when you cleaned out her living space you found several of them stashed away for any prayer emergencies that might pop up and so you have at least two in your pocket right there when you need it.
It’s almost like she planned it.
If you were not raised in a Catholic home and are unfamiliar with the devotion, a rosary is a collection of beads arranged with a crucifix (If you know where all the rosaries are stashed in your own mother’s house you can probably jump ahead). "Saying the rosary" involves reciting prayers while you ponder events in Jesus’ life, grouped into sets (Joyful, Sorrowful, Glorious, Luminous). Under normal operating circumstances, if it’s say, Sunday, you say the prayers and think about the Glorious mysteries (i.e. the Resurrection, the Ascension into Heaven, etc.), as you progress.
There in the funeral home, there was nothing normal or joyous or glorious going on, only sorrow. As I was apparently unprepared for her loss, my husband suggested the rosary for his mother-in-law who had sponsored him when he converted. This made perfect sense; Mom said at least one rosary a day through her adult life and somewhere I knew she was approving as I pulled hers out of my pocket, just as I knew a few days later she was overjoyed when all her children attended her Mass. And if dying is what it took to get all of us back in church, I guarantee you she considered it a small price to pay.
Sitting in that viewing room, clutching the rosary she had probably used only days earlier, I didn’t care what day it was; I knew that the events that I wanted to ponder that day were my favorite stories about her own very unconventional, contrary mothering career: The Patricia Mysteries.
Mom and The Priest: My husband and I are going through preparation for a Catholic wedding and we’re working with a very Zealous Young Priest. He’s not the priest who will marry us; we’ve arranged to have my parents’ pastor do that. But tests have to be taken and counseling has to be given for six months prior, and the Zealous Young Priest is taking issue with my lack of active, devout Catholicism. I call and complain to my mother, who listens to my tale, takes a deep drag on her cigarette, and says, “Well, of course your father and I wish you attended Mass regularly. But Bess: we spent how much time, money and effort sending you to Catholic school? Surely you can take on a priest?!”
Mom and The Tupperware Lady: I am a young married woman who has booked a Tupperware party to obtain free burping plastic and so I sit in my house surrounded by an assortment of married and unmarried friends, including my feminist mother. The Tupperware Lady is completely over the top, just gushing about a child-sized baking set, complete with miniature rolling pin, cake taker, and sundry accessories. As is done in these affairs, the set is being passed around the group, and the Tupperware Lady enthuses, “Wouldn’t this make a great gift for a little girl?” Patricia turns to the unsuspecting woman next to her and growls, loud enough for all to hear, “I don’t approve of giving this **** to little girls. Gives them ALL the wrong ideas.” Tupperware Lady swallows her tongue.
Mom and Weight Watchers: I am a Weight Watchers leader, conducting a meeting on Sunday mornings near my parents’ home. Mom wants to lose some weight, and so I pick her up and take her with me every week, where she heckles me throughout the meeting to the delight of the other members. One day I’m discussing emotional eating and mention that some of us come from environments where our parents required us to clean our plates, which can cause issues with food later. Mom turns to the woman next to her and again, just loud enough for the room to hear, mutters, “I knew she’d get around to blaming her rear end on me.”
Mom and Her Art: A talented and prodigious artist, Patricia’s work has been praised by no less than Jamie Wyeth of the famous Wyeth family, and she paints every day she can. Whenever I am home sick from school she musters me downstairs into the back room that serves as her studio and makes me pose in my pajamas while she sketches. I am a grown woman before I realize that most people buy art; to that point, all I know is that Moms paint all the pictures and only grudgingly clean and cook.
Mom and Her Ashes: For years, Mom has talked about her funeral and what we should do with her cremains. She is adamant that we not blow money on an urn, and that we should just keep her in the cardboard box the mortuary would provide. I protest: “Mom, we’re not having a Mass with remains up there in a cardboard box.” She replies, “So have them gift wrapped.”
As it turns out, we did not, though I was sorely tempted.
**
The rosary hangs near my bed, because that’s where you could always find one in our house, close to my mother’s hands and her heart. This is the closest thing to a Mother’s Day gift that I can send to her this weekend and, honestly, no printed Hallmark card ever adequately covered our complicated relationship, which to this day I am still unraveling.
It remains a mystery. A very Glorious, very Patricia Mystery.
Elizabeth Evans is a local mother, wife, daughter, sister, former stay-at-home mom, former work-outside-the-home mom, former work-at-home mom and a human resources consultant.
