I thought she’d live for weeks more. She’d rallied in the end, unexpectedly, but so like Mom.
Adelaide B. Golden passed from this life into the presence of the Lord on Tuesday afternoon, February 6.
Those who knew her called her Skip.
My twin sister had been there earlier in the day. Mom didn’t look as well as she’d looked just days before. Her frailty in the end was nothing like I remember of Mom. As I’ve talked to my sisters and brother, that’s one of the things we’ll remember about Mom–she never quit. Her methods weren’t always gracious, but she did what she felt she had to, with energy and passion.
Mom’s passing has been a process that’s given me time to consider what life will be with her no longer here to talk to or visit. Her life has put fingerprints all over mine, from the way I deal with people now as an adult to what I value in others. She’s impacted me with the things she’s done and not done, with how she expected life to look.
Mostly I’m remembering how well she loved my Dad.
Sixteen years ago on February 12, he went home to be with Jesus. He’d had a series of strokes that had diminished the man that he was for several years. He couldn’t speak in the end, but every time he’d look at Mom, his face would light up. His eyes grew bright.
Some of my fondest memories are of the two of them dancing. In each other’s arms, they became a single entity, gliding and grinning, moving with the music. They were magic–before “Dancing With The Stars” was even a glimmer in the eyes of producers.
Mom was a woman before her time. Her strength came from not wanting to be limited to the ’50’s picture of housewives and mothers. She was no domestic goddess, but she ran a tight ship and expected us to do our chores without complaint. She set the bar high as far as achievement. Without words spoken, we knew we were expected to give our best, no matter what it was we were involved with. She could be a tough task master.
Mom never settled for mediocre.
Mom went back to work when we were in high school, selling everything from fabric to luggage for an outfit called Marshall Field and Company out of Chicago. She was ridiculously good at it. Dad regretted never getting her into real estate. With a grin, he’d say, “She’d have made a killing.”
When Dad died, she lost a little of her sparkle. The last week of her life she’d carry on conversations with him–she saw him standing at the end of her bed. What Janet, my little sister, had done earlier in the week, Gayle did with her last moments with Mom.
She gave her permission to leave.
Hours later, Jesus took her home.
I have complete confidence in that.
I’ve cried and laughed over memories of Mom. I’m still in shock but grateful Mom and I ended well.
I’ve got a picture in my mind of her dancing with Dad.
And Jesus is there, clapping in time to the music.