No sense of curl

We held a memorial service for Momma on Friday in the dining/living room of the skilled nursing unit where she spent the last two months of her life. It was a time filled with love, memories, and the assurance of God’s grace. Friends, family, and nursing staff packed the small room.

Led by the chaplain from our hospice company, who had prayed with Momma and the family on several occasions in the last few weeks, the service was sweet and simple. I hope Mom liked it. Since I couldn’t find a pianist, we played music from my own church choir on CD, and, at the end, we sang Amazing Grace a cappella with Sis and me trying to keep everyone on key.

There was a time for remembrances during which Sis and I spoke about Momma. Though we had not compared notes ahead of time, our talks were complementary, not repetitive. Between the two of us, I think we painted a wonderful picture of our wonderful mother – beautiful, funny, kind, sweet, sarcastic, organized, perfectionist, loving, caring, entertaining, and a great cook!

My father’s Parkinsons disease has limited his ability to speak above a whisper and to find the words he needs to express himself. We did not encourage him to even attempt to talk at the service. However, when he and the rest of us met with the chaplain several days before the service, he shared a story about how Momma came to be nicknamed “Curly.”

“It was on our first date,” Dad explains. Long pause…we all wait patiently… “It was raining,” he continues. Long pause…we’re becoming impatient…

“Did her hair get frizzy?” one of us suggests.

“Or did it fall flat?” another of us prompts.

Another long pause as Dad searches for just the right words. Finally, he explains, “It had no sense of curl.”

Sue