On Moving Mother (or Not)

Last Sunday, as the sabbatical wound down, I went to church with my mother.  She is a member of Frist Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) in Barbourville, Kentucky.  Let me amend that--not just a member, she is one of the tiny congregation's four Elders.  In fact she was only the second woman named an Elder in the congregation's history!  Normally, she also serves as the congregation's lector, reading the scriptures in her clear, contralto voice.  But she's had a bit of a health scare recently, and Sunday was her first day back in several week's, so she just took a place in one of the pews, next to her visiting preacher son.

There couldn't have been more than twenty of us in attendance.  At 62, I probably brought the average age down a notch or two.  There were no children present, and none from my children's generation.  Gray was the color of the day!  But there lack of numbers was and is not due to a lack of goodwill!  I was personally greeted by almost everyone in attendance.  Granted, many of them know me by name.  Mother has been there over twenty-five years, and so I've worshipped in that church many times--even preached there once or twice.  And I co-officiated at my father's funeral service that was held there several years back.

Barbourville is a small place, and on this trip we made a couple of visits to lawyer and accountant types--making sure mother's legal and financial houses were in order.  Both her accountant, who I hadn't seen in years, and her lawyer, who I had only met once before, instantly recognized me, and commented on my rendition of "Ol' Man River" at my father's funeral (it had been Dad's favorite).

There are times when I really wish she lived closer.  Nearer to a city with the cultural offerings she enjoys so much.  I'd love to move her to Florida where I could take her to bookstores and concerts and plays and art galleries more readily.  But then I reflect on her role in Barbourville.  She is, in more than one sense of the word, one of the community elders now.  Well-respected.  Viewed as a wise and courageous woman.  And she is, indeed, both of those things.  When  I call the local florist to deliver her some flowers for Mother's Day or Christmas, the florist always tells me she'll make sure they get to Connie right away.  I even have a house account for the billing!  Whenever we walk into a store or bank, somebody knows her, if only by reputation.  Oh, they'll say, you're the professor who took care of her husband after he was hit by that drunk driver.

Yes, I'd love to move her down to Florida.  But then I stop and remember her role, her place, in Barbourville, and I realize, that's where she belongs.  Because . . . that's where she belongs.  Really belongs.

(Photo:  Mother, delivering the charge at my Service of Installation in Sanibel, 2010)