- The Washington Times - Thursday, May 10, 2007

The sweet, soft airs of spring flow across the field out back, playing a gentle song on the harp of the trees in the neighboring woods, while a red-tailed hawk soars skyward, circling benediction from on high, ever upwards towards heaven where my Mom now resides. During recent years, coming back to the house from walks through that field, I would often hear my favorite bird, the Carolina Wren. It seemed that as soon as I entered the back yard, the wren would start singing. Mom would say, “Of course, it knows you’re there and it’s talking to you.”

That Nature offers us its seasonal glories is a blessing and I’ve always enjoyed walking through those seasons. For many years those walks were with Mom. Through the neighborhood we strolled, sometimes talking, sometimes not, but always appreciating the special sights, sounds and smells of spring, summer, fall and winter.

Mom especially loved watching clouds, delighting in their infinite varieties and shapes. She found delight in most everything. Now that Mom is gone I savor and hold dear the memories of those walks. Now, on another first Mother’s Day without her, I realize how truly blessed I was to have shared those days, months and years with her, and I watch clouds aloft drift by with tears in my smile.

So many memories, not only of those walks but of the childhood years and maturing years, thinking of all those meals, all those hours Mom spent caring for and loving her six kids — her smile, her all-enveloping warmth, her tenderness. She had a gentleness that could be powerful, that could sometimes resonate in our consciences, prompting the inner voice to insist “you can do better than that.”

How I looked forward to and treasured Mom’s letters when I was in Vietnam, not to mention the cookies and cakes she sent. I know that her prayers for me back then kept me safe. She was a beautiful woman in every way. In her comforting presence many a person found solace. Her spirit, her soul, her essence were all beautiful.

Devout Catholic that she was, God truly smiled upon her and gave her strength. Lord knows she needed it dealing with all those kids. Mom loved her husband, her family, her friends and all of them and all of us loved her. We, her grown children now know just how much she was the heart of our hearts, the love of our lives.

Mom loved socializing, she loved dancing and music and movies and reading and shopping and bowling and crossword puzzles. She loved watching Notre Dame and awards shows and “Wheel of Fortune” on TV. She loved books by Jan Karon, “The Gadfly” by Shostakovich and talking on the phone with friends and neighbors.

She loved Easter and Christmas and Midnight Mass, as many lights as possible on the Christmas tree, visits with her grandkids and playing the lotto. Mom loved life and taught us all to enjoy it to the fullest. In the spring of her days she embraced it. I have an indelible image of her, one she related to us, that she would leave her house near the river and run to the levee before reaching the bridge that took her downtown to school. It is a perfect image of Mom running toward and welcoming that day and all the days to come.

I remember a hot, sunny day in July when Mom and I and my brother Steve were at the Dayton International Air Show. We had driven out especially to watch the Air Force Thunderbirds. We stood around the car and waited for the aerial acrobatics to commence. The roar and the ascent into the wild blue yonder were thrilling as always. Midway through the performance Steve and I heard a voice speaking up — it was Mom. Right then and there, with perfect timing, she began reciting the soaring verses from “High Flight” by Pilot Officer John Gillespie loudly enough for us to hear. Its first and last lines are “Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth… put out my hand and touched the face of God.” And now, Mom can do that.

Recently, I found another poem, one written by my namesake, a Jesuit priest, Father Barry Dwyer, dedicated to his Mom: My Mother’s Days Mother dear, one day for you? Nay, every hour is set apart.

A memory day to your calm smile, A shrine to your full heart.

One day for her, who all my life has guided, cheered my steps? Who held my folded hands and taught My soul to speak with Christ? Who gave me armor for the strife? Who shared in each bright joy? Who, when heart was sad, has sought To find the hurt, and heal? O mother dear, one day for you? Nay, every hour is set apart, A memory day to your calm smile, A shrine to your full heart.

It was my good fortune to have lived with Mom for many years at 430 Westbrook, Dayton, Ohio. In the last months, in the final season of her life, I was blessed to be able to care for her, to see the living embodiment of God’s eternal love.

During that period I read to her and happened to find an English literature book of my father’s when he was a college freshman. In it, he’d marked certain poems as ‘Ex’ for excellent. Hey, I can take a hint and read those to Mom. We sat on a bench on the porch in the last summer of her life. Mom wore a broad-brimmed straw hat that looked as if it had been specially made for her. Beneath it, her soft white hair framed a face shining with beatitudes of grace.

For the first reading I recited Shelley’s Ode To The West Wind: “Oh wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being / Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead / Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing… Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky’s commotion, / Loose clouds like earth’s decaying leaves are shed, / Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean.” I didn’t think I was doing such a great job of it. Mom, reassuring as ever, said I was doing just fine. How blessed I was to have been vouchsafed those precious days of her 89th year.

Now, when I take my walks; now when the Carolina Wren sings its endearing song, which it does every day around here, I remember what Mom said, and in the lilting notes I hear her voice talking to me, and I smile and say to myself, “I love you, Mom, forever and ever.”

John B. Dwyer is a military historian, author and a frequent contributor to the American Thinker.

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