Happy Birthday Mom

Today would have been my Mom's 82nd birthday. She died in the fall of 2020, during the pandemic. As of late, my Facebook memories have reminded me of the struggle we went through to get medical care for her, to try and find a diagnosis… which we never did. I felt at the time, and still do, there was a degree of ageism that was at play in trying to receive proper care for my Mom. We did have a few strong advocates, but the system wasn’t working well for my Mom. It was tough. There are times now I wish we had done an autopsy, but we chose not to. The feeling of forever-not-knowing is challenging. It feeds into fear of my own aging and what my death will be, could what happen to my mom happen to me? It seems I have found another topic for a blog post down the road…

My Mom. She was an incredible woman. She grew up in an age where the powers that be made most of her choices for her. She came home one day and was told where she would be going to secretary school after high school, and she had to go. She could only wear jeans to school on Fridays, and that was only her last two years of high school. In her church body, she was not allowed to vote or hold any positions of leadership outside of ministry to women and children. There was much in her life that she could not do, just because of her sex.

Regardless, my Mom was a strong woman. She could cook, bake, sew, drive a tractor, raise a garden, pull a calf or lamb, slaughter an animal, kiss owies better, take in multiple stray animals that needed love, run the numbers, do accounting, and so much more. She really could do almost anything. If it had to be done, she found the courage to do it, whatever it might be. She was affectionate and loving, but not fluffy. She could have moments of road rage, and she was known to share some holy anger from time to time. She stood for what she believed was right but still loved the person who thought differently.

There is so much I could say about my Mom. The scenery of life changed after her death. This poem by Maya Angelou met me need of expression of life without my mom. So, to celebrate Karen Schuster’s 82nd birthday, I share “When Great Trees Fall.”

When Great Trees Fall

By Maya Angelou

When great trees fall,

rocks on distant hills shudder,

lions hunker down

in tall grasses,

and even elephants

lumber after safety.

When great trees fall

in forests,

small things recoil into silence,

their senses

eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,

the air around us becomes

light, rare, sterile.

We breathe, briefly.

Our eyes, briefly,

see with

a hurtful clarity.

Our memory, suddenly sharpened,

examines,

gnaws on kind words

unsaid,

promised walks

never taken.

Great souls die and

our reality, bound to

them, takes leave of us.

Our souls,

dependent upon their

nurture,

now shrink, wizened.

Our minds, formed

and informed by their

radiance,

fall away.

We are not so much maddened

as reduced to the unutterable ignorance

of dark, cold

caves.

And when great souls die,

after a period peace blooms,

slowly and always

irregularly. Spaces fill

with a kind of

soothing electric vibration.

Our senses, restored, never

to be the same, whisper to us.

They existed. They existed.

We can be. Be and be

better. For they existed.