Eulogy for Mom

A funeral recording fails, years pass, and a question refuses to let go: what did I say, and what do I wish I had said?  I’m offering a do-over eulogy for my mom, Joanne Frances Kimmel Lucas, who died from cancer. If you’ve ever wanted a second chance with your words, this story meets you right where you are. 

Grief doesn’t stay polite.  We sit with Yeats’ line, “All changed, changed utterly. A terrible beauty is born,” and unpack why “terrible” belongs in our vocabulary of bereavement and coping with loss. The ache of parent loss is real, unapologetic, and allowed to sound that way. And still, beauty can exist alongside it, not as a lesson or a fix, but as love that refuses to disappear. 

What changes when a parent dies, especially the loss of the lifelong witness who carried your earliest chapters, and what does it mean to carry legacy forward in small, human ways?

If you’re looking for grief support, spiritual care, and honest language for mourning, press play. Subscribe, share with someone who needs gentleness today, and leave a review so this space of healing can reach more people.

Art, Artifacts, Fabric and Design:  https://www.etsy.com/shop/vasonaArts?ref=seller-platform-mcnav and  https://fineartamerica.com/profiles/candee-lucas and https://www.spoonflower.com/profiles/vasonaarts

ELECTRONIC BOOKS:  1000 IMAGES OF JESUS  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F2SFH4Z6

('Old Rugged Cross' was her favorite hymn and she sang it in the car often) Music and sound effects today by:   via Pixabay

Transcript

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Welcome And Why We Gather

Candee 0:33

Welcome to Solace Soul Plus Grief. I'm glad you're here. My name is Candy Lucas. I'm a Jesuit trained chaplain and spiritual director. We started this ministry in hopes of accompanying those who are following the path of grief in this circle of healing, love, and support. Oftentimes

Wanting A Do Over

Candee 1:08

in life, we hope for do-overs, whether it be an incident, a day, a meeting, some time spent. But today I went to try something different. My mother died thirty years ago yesterday. I'm sure I said something at her funeral. As a matter of fact, we had it recorded on audio. Video wasn't so prominent in 1996. But the helper at the funeral home forgot to turn on the recording for several minutes. So there is no complete record of what I said or what anyone else said at the funeral. So I'm gonna take a do-over on that eulogy today. And

Delivering The Eulogy Today

Candee 2:22

I hope you'll bear with me as I remember my mother, Joanne Francis Kimmel Lucas, who died September 10th, 1996 from cancer. So let me deliver this eulogy as if it was thirty years ago. The funeral as it happened was on September 13th. I don't remember what I said, but this is closer to what I'd wished I'd said. Thank you all for being here today. I know my mom would have been moved to see this room so full. And honestly, a little sad that she didn't get to plan this party. Because, as we all know, she loved to be the center of attention. Especially when it was entirely deserved. There's

Terrible Loss And Stubborn Beauty

Candee 3:57

a line from Yates, I keep coming back to this week, a moment that split the world into before and after. The quote is all changed, changed utterly. A terrible beauty is born. He wasn't writing about losing a parent, but I don't think grief cares much about the occasion a line was written for. It just recognizes itself when it sees it. Because that's exactly what this week has felt like. Everything changed all at once, utterly. I want to sit with that word Yates chose, terrible, because I think people expect grief to be handled at funerals the way we handle it in cards, gently, softened, presentable. The truth is this loss is terrible. It is genuinely unapologetically terrible that my mom is gone. I'm not going to stand here and pretend otherwise, and I don't think she would want me to. I know she wouldn't want me to. But Yates put another word right next to it in the same breath. Beauty. Not instead of terrible, alongside it. And that's the part I keep needing to hold on to this week. Because it's true too, even though it feels almost unfair to say it in the same sentence as everything I just said.

The Retirement Party Goodbye

Candee 6:18

I remember just a few weeks ago. We were celebrating my dad's retirement from Drake University. Physically, she had to leave the party which was outside, and was sitting in a room nearby with the door open so she could hear the festivities. I knew this occasion had as much sadness as joy because we'd been to the doctor recently. And the prognosis had turned bad quickly. It was so pretty on her, but I also remember she said her least favorite color to wear, and as far as I know, she never bought navy blue clothes to wear. So it was odd that she sat there in this room near the party, going on outside, wearing her beautiful navy blue silk suit, quite pretty in her latest wig, even though her face was close to colorless, the skin becoming almost transparent. She looked more like a memory of herself than herself. And I think I said something banal like, are you doing okay? And she said to me, I won't be here for the next party. And I nodded and said to her, But you're here for this one. And I think I gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek and went back to the party. So she couldn't see my tears. That's the beauty Yates meant, I think. Not a beauty that makes the terrible thing acceptable, but the one that exists stubbornly next to it, refusing to cancel it out. My mom's life was full of that kind of beauty, and none of that stops being true just because the ending arrived.

Losing The Witness And Keeping The Legacy

Candee 9:22

I think what changes utterly when you lose a parent isn't just the practical shape of a life. Who you call first, whose voice you expect on the other end of the line. It's something quieter than that. It's the sense that someone has been watching your whole story unfold from its very first page. And now that witness is gone. And you're the one who has to carry the earliest chapters by yourself from here on. That is a real loss. It is allowed to be as terrible as it feels today. I don't think it's the last word, and I don't think Yates meant it to be either. Something is born in that line, even as something else ends. What's born here, I think, is what my mom leaves behind in each of us. How she loved and worked, forgave, showed up, partied, that are not gone at all. Because they're in the room right now, in every one of us, who learned from her, who learned them from watching her live them. So today is terrible, and it is also somehow beautiful. Not despite the terribleness, but standing right next to it. The way Yates put those words together side by side and refused to choose between them. We changed utterly because you were in it, and we'll carry the rest of it from here. That

Weekly Rhythm And A Gentle Blessing

Candee 11:51

concludes another episode. A new one drops every Friday morning. You can find us on Apple Music, Amazon Music, and Spotify. Remember to be gentle with yourselves this week and gentle with others. Always travel with God at your side.