Eulogy for My Mother

I delivered the following in memory of my mother at the conclusion of her funeral mass at St. Cecilia’s Roman Catholic Church in Englewood, N.J., this past Monday. I don’t ordinarily share much personal information about myself or my relatives on this blog, but this time, the example of my mother’s life called for an exception.

First, on behalf of myself and my family, I’d like to thank everyone in this beautiful church that my mother loved so much—and many other people who couldn’t be here today—for the care you showed us and our mother throughout a prolonged, painful period.

We have just heard in the Gospel about Our Lord’s grief over the loss of his friend Lazarus. But the story of Lazarus didn’t end with loss—it turned into affirmation. And so it is here today, as we celebrate the simple life but infinite value of Nora Tubridy.

We remember that Mom felt blessed that she survived a sickly childhood to go on to live a long life, filled with family who adored her.

We remember what Fr. Hilary at yesterday’s wake and Fr. Joe in today’s homily spoke of with characteristic eloquence—that God’s promise of eternal life through the Resurrection—the same promise my mother believed so devoutly all her life—is being fulfilled now in her case.

And we remember not what we lost these last few days, but what we gained over a lifetime—an extraordinary example of thoughtfulness, generosity and self-sacrifice.

Our mother suffered, among other ills, from heart disease. You could say, in that superficial, physical sense, that she had a bad heart. But in the senses that really mattered—emotionally, spiritually—she was the great beating heart of our family.

Nobody put into practice more what she always preached to us: “Self-praise is no recommendation.”

In fact, if there was a single thing I would have changed about her, it might have been her great shyness. Otherwise, far more people would have realized that she was an inexhaustible source of something all but impossible to find in ordinary life: unconditional love.

From the moment she met Dad in the summer of 1951 in the Catskill town of East Durham, N.Y., in the “Irish Alps,” she was supportive and attentive to anything he could want.

For her three boys, she was sensitive to unvoiced anxieties and sorrows: about a grade, a job, or worst of all, a girl. She would give us more than enough time to work out our feelings, but also know the exact moment to step in, with that tough Bronx love, to tell us we would get over it—and we should.

She was our greatest cheerleader and promoter. She believed each of us had special stuff, and helped us find it through the sheer force of that faith and love.

She treasured all her life Grandpa, Nana, my aunt Mary, my uncles Johnny and Ben, but what was especially extraordinary to us was her role, for 26 years, as caregiver for her twin brother Pete, who, like her, was quiet and unassuming. She did this until she was well into old age herself and experiencing the first symptoms of Parkinson’s. Quite simply, she sustained his life.

Over the years, we became familiar with so much about her:

* daily calls to her beloved sister and best friend, my dear Aunt Mary;
* the exclamations “Ah, gee” or “the poor thing” over something you said or did;
* her delight in tickling her three rambunctious boys;
* the way, during our life growing up in the Bronx, she would spot my brother John near a corner hot-dog vendor, wrap 35 cents in a napkin, and drop it out the window so he could buy a hot dog and Yoo-Hoo;
* saying multiple rosaries;
* listening to Dorothy Hayden’s Irish music show every Sunday night;
* cooking as many as four meals a day to accommodate the schedules of the four males in the house;
* waiting up till one or two in the morning for the return of whichever son was out;
* her questions, when we returned from a road trip or event, about everything we ate;
* standing in the middle of West Street, when a son was heading off to college or returning to an out-of-state home, waving until the car disappeared around the corner, then turning back into the house with a catch in the throat and a tear in the eye;
* the clear but elegant handwritten letters—virtual models for the old Palmer Penmanship method—that she mailed those of us away from home.

There’s nothing momentous about this list. But each small act mattered. Our mother showed the enormous power of St. Therese and her “simple way.”

All our lives, we knew how gentle this woman was. But I think it was only in the last few years, when she endured endless heartache—including the deaths of two beloved brothers, a sister, and brother-in-law all within 15 months—and interacting, debilitating complications from Parkinson’s, heart disease and macular degeneration—that we learned how tough and brave she really was. She even managed to crack a joke as her condition worsened in the hospital, two nights before she died.

She lost up to 60 pounds, yet somehow the beauty of those blue eyes shone all the more. And one morning during her last week in the hospital, when she woke to find me at her bedside, as weak and exhausted as she was, barely able to talk, she repeated exactly what she did with our whole family throughout our lives—she reached out with a hug and kiss.

As understandable as it is, we must not mourn her unduly anymore. Instead, we should rejoice that she left the best of herself in each of us—and that even now, she is our personal angel, saving a place for us in Heaven, ready to warm our hearts with hot tea and that soft, sweet voice humming “Toura-lura-lura.”