...about my mother's eulogy
I had to give the eulogy at my mother's funeral. I didn't want to do it. I was very close to my mother, I grew up with her when she was a single parent (she later remarried), and she had a profound influence on my life -- still does, in fact. I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to speak without breaking down.
But my sisters and brother expected I would speak. I was the writer and public speaker, after all. There was no one else available who knew her so well. So, I reluctantly agreed. I wrote her story and, of course, I was moved by the tragedy, sacrifice and hardship in her life, the character she modeled, the love (a little repressed) she extended, and the idiosyncrasies and contradictions that made her unique.
The art of speaking in public is to move others; not to display your own unruly emotions. I knew from experience how difficult a sobbing man is on an audience, particularly at a funeral. And I knew my mother would prefer dignity as well as affection -- but you should know I can barely say goodbye to someone at an airport without tears, so I knew I had to man up.
I was staying at a hotel in the town where Mother had lived and the night before the funeral I paced in my hotel room reading my scripted words. Whenever I hit a section that caught in my throat, I would reread and reread it aloud, working through the emotion. Better to weep now than in the morning. That night I let loose feelings harbored deep within me; my gratitude and love for Barbara, my mother, often overcame me.
Then an amazing thing happened. I heard a musician begin to blow scales on a saxophone. The sax was quite loud and must have been nearby, next door perhaps. I found the noise intrusive and was about to phone down to the desk when suddenly the saxophonist broke into Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child. This is true. I am not making this up. The playing was as beautiful and clear as any sax I'd ever heard. I stood in awe, listening. It was as if a sympathetic Universe were calling to me. Then it was gone. Silent.
I checked at the desk the next morning. There were no musicians playing at the hotel. And none had checked in. I asked those family members who were staying at the hotel. None of them had heard any saxophone the night before.
I spoke at the funeral. I didn't cry in spite of seeing my sisters' tears in the front row of pews. And oddly, over the next couple days, when I crossed through a doorway, my sleeve often would catch on a doorknob or latch as if someone were tugging at my cuff. I could not help but think of my mother in those moments.
I'm not one to whom supernatural events occur. I've not before encountered ghostly voices or apparitions. But perhaps when emotions run high, we become sensitive to some other vibration. Perhaps there just happened to be the world's greatest saxophone player staying next door in a hotel in a small town in Manitoba who decided to play Motherless Child at that moment. I don't know. To this day, I don't know.
