It is only with knowledge of my Mom’s sense of humor that I give this talk. I struggle sometimes with the appropriateness of giving this at her funeral services, but knowing my quirky personality, and my mother’s sense of humor, getting my brother’s OK, and him donating a few minutes to me to give it, I thought that I would share it again.
While attending BYU years ago, I recall a cultural geography class I took where, one day, there was a discussion centered around western civilization’s values regarding families. As a class, we listed the benefits and costs of having children on the chalkboard. Among the few benefits included:
While attending BYU years ago, I recall a cultural geography class I took where, one day, there was a discussion centered around western civilization’s values regarding families. As a class, we listed the benefits and costs of having children on the chalkboard. Among the few benefits included:
1) free source of labor
2) social security with aging
3) and a nebulous one: “joy”
The costs—which greatly outweighed the benefits—included:
1) incredible financial burdens
2) increased responsibility
3) decreased personal time
4) avoidable worry
5) rapid aging
6) diminished opportunities—especially for the mother—with regards to career, travel, etc
This exercise of systematically listing the pro’s and con’s of parenthood during class triggered a distant memory—even a theory—I had developed of parenting, but especially motherhood, from long ago. Unfortunately, this theory—which once acted as a catalyst for my actions—had now faded into obscurity with the ever-heaping distractions of life.
It’s this theory—and the subsequent action it spurned in my earlier life—that I would like to explore further. To do this, I have brought my “way-back” machine. It’s big enough to fit us all in—and I’d invite everyone to come along. When framed in its original perspective, the theory becomes more relevant—hence, the “way-back” machine. I’ve already pre-set the “way-back” machine for Fall, 1971 in Omaha, Nebraska. At a very early age, I was blessed with a photographic memory which allows for the unusual details of the time.
I must have been 8….16….or, perhaps, 32 cells big…..I just can’t remember… and floating in the dark. It was warm and I was disoriented. Life was in front of me, yet, I was sad. My melancholic mood was not directed at myself, however, but my mother. It was inevitable that I would bring great hardships to her with time. I also knew that this process was not unique with my mother—that mothers through generations of time—have stumbled down this same path. Although small, perplexed, and surrounded by amniotic fluid, it was then and there that I hatched my grand theory of motherhood: any woman choosing to embark on the great ship of motherhood must either be ignorant or just plain nuts. I just couldn’t see any other way around it. My first thought on the theory was that most women desiring motherhood would be ignorant—truly not fully knowing what would befall them. As my own mother modeled motherhood to me, so I will use her life to illustrate how my theory practically became law in my own mind. I would now like to re-set the “way-back” machine for the late 1940’s. We will be taking a brisk trek through the late 1940’s up to about 1966. The place?—Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The “way-back” machine will move quickly, so take a deep breath and hold on.
My mother, Helen, grew up in Pittsburgh’s row housing with her mother, Edna, and her mother’s parents. While she was raised with no other siblings, she had many friends, cousins and interests. She was a popular student in all grades and found academic success. Helen enjoyed cheerleading in high school and, like so many other popular kids of the day, could even play the accordion. She left the nest after high school to begin a 4-year home economics degree at Muskingum College in eastern Ohio. She then returned to Pittsburgh and taught remedial reading in Junior High School. Briefly into her teaching career, her well-meaning mother ran into some clean-cut, good-looking young men in suits in downtown Pittsburgh. Desiring her daughter not to be an old maid, she invited these attractive boys to her home to meet Helen. My mother—seeing beyond their boyish good looks—was most attracted to their message. Despite some personal and family skepticism, she was baptized into the Church of Jesus Christ shortly thereafter—and that has made all the difference. 10 months later, she met my father and, eventually, wed.
Now, I’d like to stop the “way-back” machine and take a step back. At that time—1968—my mother seemingly had it all. She had stability and security with a new marriage, a career in teaching that she really enjoyed, she was popular in her circle of friends and family, and, most importantly, she had a working knowledge of the gospel of Jesus Christ. What more could she want? Why “ruin” the situation with a child? I can only plead ignorance for my mother’s defense. Perhaps she did not know that her career would end, her friends would shift, and, most importantly, how her time would seldom be her own.
Ah, but ignorance is only applicable once. Now, let’s fast forward back to Fall, 1971 via the “way-back” machine. Despite the heat and cramped conditions, I continued to brood over my recently developed theory. Knowing that my older brother, Mike, preceded me by 2 years, I felt she could not be ignorant of motherhood, yet, why was she repeating the whole process? That’s when I suspected that my mother—no longer ignorant of motherhood—must, therefore, be crazy. I wondered if my mother expected to “get something” from me that my older brother, Mike, could not give her. Feeling pity for my mother—and feeling it the duty of a loving and faithful son—I decided then to “give” all I could to help awaken my mother to a sense of her madness. Perhaps this strategy of “giving”—to fill some unknown void in Helen—could divert the desire of ever repeating motherhood again. I knew I would have to “give” a lot as I did not know what, exactly, she sought. Oh, and “give” I did.
First, it was morning sickness—I gave plenty of it for weeks. I also gave her extra pounds which, in turn, gave her back her wardrobe from 2 years previous. I gave her limited mobility, awkward and unrestful sleep, fatigue, low back pain, and regular visits to the doctor. I gave and gave—as best as I knew how—for nearly nine months. It was at that time I gave my greatest gift. Childbirth is tied as the greatest natural pain a human body can experience (tied with passing a kidney stone). I made the best of this opportunity to leave an indelible imprint on my mother’s memory and, hopefully, sap all desire from her wanting to do this again. The process took several hours.
Once born, I realized I could no longer “give” like I had given before. I scrambled quickly for new, creative ideas. Whatever I did, I knew it had to be “given” in abundance if I had any hope of supplying what my mother sought and satisfy her need for more children. Thankfully, my creativity failed not, and I continued to give abundantly. I gave my mother high decibel levels, sleepless nights, plenty of opportunities to feed and bathe me, milk on her shoulder after meals, and, my specialty, dirty diapers—thousands of them. Done over years, I figured this would be enough to satisfy any insane mother’s deepest desires.
To my great trepidation, however, my giving—and my older brother’s before me—had not satisfied my mom. She was plotting a third child. At this point, I knew my mother was mad, not extremely ignorant. How could she not know the madness of motherhood by now—after 2 young boys? It failed all reason.
I had previously been working in a shroud of secrecy to restore my mother’s sanity. However, with the looming threat of a third child and the improvement of my own verbal skills, I knew that I would have to reveal my theory and efforts to my older brother, Mike. After speaking at length to him, he concurred that only a frenzied mind would electively seek more hardship. The lot to reclaim our mother back to a sane, simple state rested upon Mike and I. Now, a little older, wiser, and out of diapers—which previously bogged us down—we knew that any success would require a joint effort. We also knew that a new plan of attack would be necessary.
“Giving” did not release my mother’s maniacal mind. In fact, it may have solidified it. We reasoned that if “giving” gave no results, perhaps we could “take” back her previous life. Yes, “take” would replace “give.” Any future incoming siblings could serve as a smoke-screen for our impending backdoor “take” attack by continuing an instinctive frontal assault through “giving.” Little did Mike and I know at the time that there were 2 younger sisters on their way—Rebecca, then Rachel—first “giving” and then converting to a “taking” approach later. The plan was our only shot.
“Operation Take” quickly jumped into full swing. With time, our craft became ever more perfected. We took her patience through disobedience, disruptions, and squabbles with siblings. We sapped her energy through long, busy, active days. However, most of all we took her time. Benjamin Franklin once referred to time as “the very essence of life”—and, in essence, we were trying to take her life back to the grandeur of yesteryear. Subtlety in our attacks was lessened as efforts became more desperate. We demanded that she take us to the playground, to the neighbor’s house, then back to the playground. To the park, to the curb to watch the garbage men come, to the pool, to the zoo, to the toy store, and to Grandma’s. We required her to take us to sacrament meetings, to the nursery, into the scriptures, and to our knees each night. With each trip, we were confident we would reach our ultimate goal. We, the generals of her restoration project, had become her time—and, subsequently, her life.
Years after the fourth—and last child, Rachel—our hopes gradually rose. We had managed to convince mother of the madness of children; however, her sanity was still in question. Despite all she was sacrificing—on a daily basis—she seemed happy. This was troubling. It was an obvious sign that her derangement persisted. As loving and diligent children we were not so easily discouraged. We—and our 2 sisters by now—continued our plan of “taking” well into adolescence and beyond.
We manhandled mother into taking us to school—especially on the first day of each year. She also woke us up each school day. She chaperoned our field trips. We made her bring us lunch if we forgot it. We took her counsel on difficult homework assignments. We drug her to soccer, baseball, football, and basketball games. We took her daily meals. We took her snacks. We even took her kisses. We took clean rooms and made them dirty. We took quiet, and made noise. We took good logic and created incongruity. Greatest of all, for over 10 years we took her on early-morning paper routes—every, single day. As we aged, we took her to malls, museums, and historic sites. We took letters from her while in the mission field and took phone calls from her during bad semesters at school. We took her to the belly of the Grand Canyon, to the shores of Maui, to the grandeur of the Alps, and to the top of the Eiffel Tower. In 2003, we took her to another seemingly distant land called “grandparenthood.” Take. Take. Take. It was a never-ending, full-time job.
Unfortunately, I am sad to report, that throughout it all, my mother was quite happy and, hence, insane. She had seemingly lost everything she once had before children and, yet, claimed she was bliss. All our best efforts were in vain. This terribly abridged account of my own mother’s struggles with children further strengthened my original theory: any woman voluntarily entering motherhood is either ignorant or crazy.
However, my mother’s constant kindness, charity, love, and happiness with 4 children over many years made me, in time, question my own theory. Was the madness in my method? Was the theory actually flawed? While I have focused on my mother, she is merely a microcosm of many millions of merry mothers through millennia who would claim that it is, in fact, the theory that is crazy. Thank goodness for Helen, and for all mothers, who see the greater purpose in motherhood.
Mothers—mine or yours—do not become mothers out of ignorance nor madness. These reasons could not be further from the truth. Mothers seek motherhood with an instinctive understanding similar to that held by the Mother Of All Living. Eve recognized, after eating the forbidden fruit, that descending to a telestial state from a celestial state was the only path which could, ultimately, lead to an exalted state. This path could not be trodden without children. So, likewise, do mothers—those that are, and those that will yet be—recognize the paradoxical descent that must precede any ascension to a higher sphere. Thankfully, Heavenly Father has instilled in both men and women—but especially the women—a yearning for the joys of parenting. He has further quipped mothers with a memory of the good times which override the memories of the ubiquitous and inevitable struggles. Through these faithful mothers, the Plan of Happiness is fulfilled. Spirits enter the world to be tried and tested. Loving mothers give all they have for the welfare of their children even to the fulfilling of John 15:13:
“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”
Is there any greater friend than your own child? Is there any greater love than a mother who lays down her life daily, monthly, yearly for her children? Is there any greater type of Christ?
I am eternally grateful for mothers—especially my mother, Helen Vernon. I stand in awe at the unheralded selflessness she exhibited throughout her life with us 4 children.
I would like to conclude with a quote which sums up all that is in my heart. It was said by Abraham Lincoln of his mother, but also applies to my mother—as it probably does your mothers:
“All I am or hope to be I owe to my angel mother."
In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.
It’s this theory—and the subsequent action it spurned in my earlier life—that I would like to explore further. To do this, I have brought my “way-back” machine. It’s big enough to fit us all in—and I’d invite everyone to come along. When framed in its original perspective, the theory becomes more relevant—hence, the “way-back” machine. I’ve already pre-set the “way-back” machine for Fall, 1971 in Omaha, Nebraska. At a very early age, I was blessed with a photographic memory which allows for the unusual details of the time.
I must have been 8….16….or, perhaps, 32 cells big…..I just can’t remember… and floating in the dark. It was warm and I was disoriented. Life was in front of me, yet, I was sad. My melancholic mood was not directed at myself, however, but my mother. It was inevitable that I would bring great hardships to her with time. I also knew that this process was not unique with my mother—that mothers through generations of time—have stumbled down this same path. Although small, perplexed, and surrounded by amniotic fluid, it was then and there that I hatched my grand theory of motherhood: any woman choosing to embark on the great ship of motherhood must either be ignorant or just plain nuts. I just couldn’t see any other way around it. My first thought on the theory was that most women desiring motherhood would be ignorant—truly not fully knowing what would befall them. As my own mother modeled motherhood to me, so I will use her life to illustrate how my theory practically became law in my own mind. I would now like to re-set the “way-back” machine for the late 1940’s. We will be taking a brisk trek through the late 1940’s up to about 1966. The place?—Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The “way-back” machine will move quickly, so take a deep breath and hold on.
My mother, Helen, grew up in Pittsburgh’s row housing with her mother, Edna, and her mother’s parents. While she was raised with no other siblings, she had many friends, cousins and interests. She was a popular student in all grades and found academic success. Helen enjoyed cheerleading in high school and, like so many other popular kids of the day, could even play the accordion. She left the nest after high school to begin a 4-year home economics degree at Muskingum College in eastern Ohio. She then returned to Pittsburgh and taught remedial reading in Junior High School. Briefly into her teaching career, her well-meaning mother ran into some clean-cut, good-looking young men in suits in downtown Pittsburgh. Desiring her daughter not to be an old maid, she invited these attractive boys to her home to meet Helen. My mother—seeing beyond their boyish good looks—was most attracted to their message. Despite some personal and family skepticism, she was baptized into the Church of Jesus Christ shortly thereafter—and that has made all the difference. 10 months later, she met my father and, eventually, wed.
Now, I’d like to stop the “way-back” machine and take a step back. At that time—1968—my mother seemingly had it all. She had stability and security with a new marriage, a career in teaching that she really enjoyed, she was popular in her circle of friends and family, and, most importantly, she had a working knowledge of the gospel of Jesus Christ. What more could she want? Why “ruin” the situation with a child? I can only plead ignorance for my mother’s defense. Perhaps she did not know that her career would end, her friends would shift, and, most importantly, how her time would seldom be her own.
Ah, but ignorance is only applicable once. Now, let’s fast forward back to Fall, 1971 via the “way-back” machine. Despite the heat and cramped conditions, I continued to brood over my recently developed theory. Knowing that my older brother, Mike, preceded me by 2 years, I felt she could not be ignorant of motherhood, yet, why was she repeating the whole process? That’s when I suspected that my mother—no longer ignorant of motherhood—must, therefore, be crazy. I wondered if my mother expected to “get something” from me that my older brother, Mike, could not give her. Feeling pity for my mother—and feeling it the duty of a loving and faithful son—I decided then to “give” all I could to help awaken my mother to a sense of her madness. Perhaps this strategy of “giving”—to fill some unknown void in Helen—could divert the desire of ever repeating motherhood again. I knew I would have to “give” a lot as I did not know what, exactly, she sought. Oh, and “give” I did.
First, it was morning sickness—I gave plenty of it for weeks. I also gave her extra pounds which, in turn, gave her back her wardrobe from 2 years previous. I gave her limited mobility, awkward and unrestful sleep, fatigue, low back pain, and regular visits to the doctor. I gave and gave—as best as I knew how—for nearly nine months. It was at that time I gave my greatest gift. Childbirth is tied as the greatest natural pain a human body can experience (tied with passing a kidney stone). I made the best of this opportunity to leave an indelible imprint on my mother’s memory and, hopefully, sap all desire from her wanting to do this again. The process took several hours.
Once born, I realized I could no longer “give” like I had given before. I scrambled quickly for new, creative ideas. Whatever I did, I knew it had to be “given” in abundance if I had any hope of supplying what my mother sought and satisfy her need for more children. Thankfully, my creativity failed not, and I continued to give abundantly. I gave my mother high decibel levels, sleepless nights, plenty of opportunities to feed and bathe me, milk on her shoulder after meals, and, my specialty, dirty diapers—thousands of them. Done over years, I figured this would be enough to satisfy any insane mother’s deepest desires.
To my great trepidation, however, my giving—and my older brother’s before me—had not satisfied my mom. She was plotting a third child. At this point, I knew my mother was mad, not extremely ignorant. How could she not know the madness of motherhood by now—after 2 young boys? It failed all reason.
I had previously been working in a shroud of secrecy to restore my mother’s sanity. However, with the looming threat of a third child and the improvement of my own verbal skills, I knew that I would have to reveal my theory and efforts to my older brother, Mike. After speaking at length to him, he concurred that only a frenzied mind would electively seek more hardship. The lot to reclaim our mother back to a sane, simple state rested upon Mike and I. Now, a little older, wiser, and out of diapers—which previously bogged us down—we knew that any success would require a joint effort. We also knew that a new plan of attack would be necessary.
“Giving” did not release my mother’s maniacal mind. In fact, it may have solidified it. We reasoned that if “giving” gave no results, perhaps we could “take” back her previous life. Yes, “take” would replace “give.” Any future incoming siblings could serve as a smoke-screen for our impending backdoor “take” attack by continuing an instinctive frontal assault through “giving.” Little did Mike and I know at the time that there were 2 younger sisters on their way—Rebecca, then Rachel—first “giving” and then converting to a “taking” approach later. The plan was our only shot.
“Operation Take” quickly jumped into full swing. With time, our craft became ever more perfected. We took her patience through disobedience, disruptions, and squabbles with siblings. We sapped her energy through long, busy, active days. However, most of all we took her time. Benjamin Franklin once referred to time as “the very essence of life”—and, in essence, we were trying to take her life back to the grandeur of yesteryear. Subtlety in our attacks was lessened as efforts became more desperate. We demanded that she take us to the playground, to the neighbor’s house, then back to the playground. To the park, to the curb to watch the garbage men come, to the pool, to the zoo, to the toy store, and to Grandma’s. We required her to take us to sacrament meetings, to the nursery, into the scriptures, and to our knees each night. With each trip, we were confident we would reach our ultimate goal. We, the generals of her restoration project, had become her time—and, subsequently, her life.
Years after the fourth—and last child, Rachel—our hopes gradually rose. We had managed to convince mother of the madness of children; however, her sanity was still in question. Despite all she was sacrificing—on a daily basis—she seemed happy. This was troubling. It was an obvious sign that her derangement persisted. As loving and diligent children we were not so easily discouraged. We—and our 2 sisters by now—continued our plan of “taking” well into adolescence and beyond.
We manhandled mother into taking us to school—especially on the first day of each year. She also woke us up each school day. She chaperoned our field trips. We made her bring us lunch if we forgot it. We took her counsel on difficult homework assignments. We drug her to soccer, baseball, football, and basketball games. We took her daily meals. We took her snacks. We even took her kisses. We took clean rooms and made them dirty. We took quiet, and made noise. We took good logic and created incongruity. Greatest of all, for over 10 years we took her on early-morning paper routes—every, single day. As we aged, we took her to malls, museums, and historic sites. We took letters from her while in the mission field and took phone calls from her during bad semesters at school. We took her to the belly of the Grand Canyon, to the shores of Maui, to the grandeur of the Alps, and to the top of the Eiffel Tower. In 2003, we took her to another seemingly distant land called “grandparenthood.” Take. Take. Take. It was a never-ending, full-time job.
Unfortunately, I am sad to report, that throughout it all, my mother was quite happy and, hence, insane. She had seemingly lost everything she once had before children and, yet, claimed she was bliss. All our best efforts were in vain. This terribly abridged account of my own mother’s struggles with children further strengthened my original theory: any woman voluntarily entering motherhood is either ignorant or crazy.
However, my mother’s constant kindness, charity, love, and happiness with 4 children over many years made me, in time, question my own theory. Was the madness in my method? Was the theory actually flawed? While I have focused on my mother, she is merely a microcosm of many millions of merry mothers through millennia who would claim that it is, in fact, the theory that is crazy. Thank goodness for Helen, and for all mothers, who see the greater purpose in motherhood.
Mothers—mine or yours—do not become mothers out of ignorance nor madness. These reasons could not be further from the truth. Mothers seek motherhood with an instinctive understanding similar to that held by the Mother Of All Living. Eve recognized, after eating the forbidden fruit, that descending to a telestial state from a celestial state was the only path which could, ultimately, lead to an exalted state. This path could not be trodden without children. So, likewise, do mothers—those that are, and those that will yet be—recognize the paradoxical descent that must precede any ascension to a higher sphere. Thankfully, Heavenly Father has instilled in both men and women—but especially the women—a yearning for the joys of parenting. He has further quipped mothers with a memory of the good times which override the memories of the ubiquitous and inevitable struggles. Through these faithful mothers, the Plan of Happiness is fulfilled. Spirits enter the world to be tried and tested. Loving mothers give all they have for the welfare of their children even to the fulfilling of John 15:13:
“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”
Is there any greater friend than your own child? Is there any greater love than a mother who lays down her life daily, monthly, yearly for her children? Is there any greater type of Christ?
I am eternally grateful for mothers—especially my mother, Helen Vernon. I stand in awe at the unheralded selflessness she exhibited throughout her life with us 4 children.
I would like to conclude with a quote which sums up all that is in my heart. It was said by Abraham Lincoln of his mother, but also applies to my mother—as it probably does your mothers:
“All I am or hope to be I owe to my angel mother."
In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.
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