Tribute to my Mother

A Tribute to my Mother

Jean Elizabeth (Reamer) Harbold ~ “Betty,” “Ma”

July 9, 1927 – February 27, 2007

By Tom Harbold

I can do all things in him who strengthens me.

Phillipians 4:13

At approximately 8:15 on the evening of Tuesday, February 27th, 2007, our kind, gentle, loving, feisty, spirited, and devoted mother passed out of this world and into, we believe, closer communion with a loving God, and reunion with our late father, her parents, and many other loved ones who have gone before. Our sadness is great, but so is our relief and joy that she has been released from the suffering that marked the last portion of her life on this earth.

Much could be said about the strength and determination with which she fought for life, or about the peace and holiness of her final passing. But I would like to direct my gaze further back, leapfrogging over the times of pain and suffering to reflect on who Ma was and how much she influenced my life, and the lives of all her family.

You see, family came first in my mom's life. Having lived through the deprivations and fears of the Great Depression and World War Two, she received an excellent liberal arts education at (then) Western Maryland College, graduating in 1949. Shortly thereafter she married my father, a WW II vet whose family attended the Methodist church where her father was pastor. Ma was always proud to be a Methodist minister's daughter, and she brought up her three sons in the Christian faith she professed.

In the early years of her marriage to my father, Ma was a schoolteacher, but it did not take long for her to realize that her true vocation was to the wellbeing of her family. Although it required a lot of scrimping and saving, especially in the early years, she became a full-time wife, mother, and homemaker, and excelled at all three roles.

I think there is probably no question that all three of us boys took Ma somewhat for granted, growing up. She was simply always present, always directly involved in our lives. She patched up our cuts and bruises. She sent us off to school with a good breakfast under our belts and home-packed lunchboxes in our hands. She was there when we came home from school as well, doubtless keeping us out of at least some of the trouble we might otherwise have gotten in.

She made sure we did our homework, but she also gave us plenty of time to simply be boys -- building models, playing with stuffed animals and other toys, or heading to the woods to explore and build "forts." I will never forget playing out in the woods, a good distance from home, only to hear, about dinnertime, a resounding "TOMMMM!" echoing through the forest, calling me home to dinner. And when I arrived, it was to the mouth-watering smells and (usually, with a handful of memorable exceptions) delicious tastes of a home-cooked dinner.

Nor will I ever forget all the times she stood by my bedside, singing songs and reading stories to me, or sharing poems from "the big blue poetry book." I was plagued by migraine headaches as a child, and I can only imagine the back-strain as she stood patiently at my bed, rubbing my head to soothe my pain. I was grateful to be able to perform a similar function for her, in her last days.

Although sewing wasn't her favorite domestic task, my mom was an excellent seamstress, rather a martinet when it came to keeping the house spic-and-span, and taught us to fold clothes with expertise and make our beds with "hospital corners." And oh, the cakes and pies, cookies and brownies and "marble squares" she baked! Holidays were celebrated with delectable foods and special decorations, and she loved what she called "entertaining" – having friends over for dinner and an evening of talking and visiting.

She was very active in her church: when I was growing up, Mt. Zion (United) Methodist, in High¬land, Maryland. She and Pa both sang in the choir at times, and she was often an officer in the Women's Society, later United Methodist Women. She was also active in the now-defunct Homemakers Club.

Ma was not perfect, of course; no human is. But she was a living embodiment of motherly love, and an amazing example of selfless, sacrificial, and immensely loving devotion to her family, and to all the tasks and duties that go into making a house a home. Thank you, Ma. I will try my best to live up to the example you set. And there will be a meeting again.

My Mother’s Piano

By Tom Harbold

This essay appeared as a column in the Carroll County Times on Tuesday, May 9th, 2006.

Just to the left of the front entrance of the house where I live with my mother is the formal living room: what I call the "parlor," asserting that the true "living room" is the family room, since that's where we do most of our living. Call it living room or parlor, though, the front room's centerpiece is clearly our upright piano. The piano. My mother's piano.

Both of my parents were excellent amateur musicians in their younger days. My father was good enough that, after being wounded in action in World War Two and making his way through field hospitals and the "repple depple" (replacement depot), he was tapped for the regimental band, in which he played both piano and trumpet during the post-war occupation of Germany.

My mother grew up in a Methodist parsonage, where she learned to play both the piano and organ at church services, often assisting or substituting for the regular organist. Both parents sung in the choirs of the various churches they attended, and my father directed the choir at one of them. He gave the piano to my mother shortly after they were married – at the time, a major investment, and a sign of the love which shone so deeply through their marriage until his death in 1999, and continues to shine in her frequent reminiscences of him.

I was a relatively late addition to the family, and by my arrival, the heyday of my parents' musical ventures had largely passed. Largely, but not entirely. My father, as might be expected, could play a rare tune when the inspiration hit him, but it was my mother's more frequent playing – usually of traditional hymns, or classic Christmas carols in season -- that had the greatest effect. There are many reasons, for instance, why both spirituality and the environment are deeply important in my life, but surely listening to my mother playing and singing "How Great Thou Art," her loving voice blending with the movements of her strong but gentle hands on the keys, was an important contributing factor.

I find it interesting and a little curious that I have been noticing my mother's piano, and the void left by its silence, more and more often now that she is absent from the house. Having injured herself in a fall a few weeks before Easter, she has been either in the hospital or convalescing and undergoing physical therapy ever since. As her live-in caretaker, as well as loving son, I miss her presence, of course. But it's been poignant to realize how much I miss her piano-playing, too.

To miss it so much just now is perhaps not entirely rational – due to painful arthritis, her playing has been ever less frequent in recent years -- but rationality counts for little where matters of emotion are involved. And there is something about music, or its lack, which touches our emotions deeply. In a sense, the un-played piano has come to stand for the lack of my mother's physical presence, as well as my regret for the advancing years which have robbed her hands of so much of their former agility, over the past decade or so.

It is never easy, seeing one's parents age. Especially not if you love them. But barring catastrophe, it is inevitable, and as my maternal grandfather aptly put it, "getting older is no fun, but it sure beats the alternative." My mother is doing well in her physical therapy, and if her progress continues, should be home in a week or two. For how much longer, though? That is the question. God willing, she'll be around to love and be loved by her family for a good many more years. But not, necessarily, in this house.

And perhaps that is why my throat gets suddenly and unexpectedly tight, and my eyes a little misty, as I run my hand along the smooth, lightly dust-covered cherry wood of my mother's piano. It's not just for the missing music that I mourn. It's for the end of an era which seems, whatever happens, to be drawing slowly toward its close.

Ma has fought the good fight, she has finished the race

My beloved mother, Jean Elizabeth (Reamer) Harbold, known to her friends as "Betty" and to her sons as our dear, wonderful, and much-loved Ma, passed out of this mortal life and into "a brighter light, upon a further shore" at about 8:15 p.m. this evening, Tuesday, February 27th, 2007.

Although she had been in considerable respiratory distress the last two days, and this afternoon and evening was particularly difficult, her final passing was a peaceful one, as the Lord she has loved and followed all her days sent His angels to safely escort her kind and gentle spirit home.

She never made it to hospice, but was given comfort care at Carroll Hospital Center, and she passed into the next world attended by all three of her sons -- my brothers and myself -- along with one of her daughters-in-law and her youngest niece. My brother John and sister-in-law Susan had prevailed upon me to take some time from Ma's side and come home to have dinner with them, which I did... difficult though it was to leave her. In the meantime, we later learned, my other brother Mark had been joined by his daughter Hannah, who read Ma some of her (Ma's) favorite poems from our "Big Blue Poetry Book," as we always called it -- thus undoubtedly easing her grandmother's final time on this earth.

When John, Susan, and I returned, it was to find Ma breathing far more slowly -- and, thankfully, entirely without distress. Her skin had lost its feverish flush, and was in fact already beginning to fade to pale. Realizing that the end was very near, we rallied around her, holding her hands and resting our hands upon her. I read the final commendatory prayers at the time of departure from the Book of Common Prayer. At some point during or shortly following those prayers, Ma breathed her last, slipping quietly away in utter peace, with prayers in her ears and poems in her heart.

She spoke no word, nor did she open her eyes -- but earlier today her eyes were wide open and tracking, drinking in everything she could of us... perhaps to strengthen herself for her final battle? She even fought her way through the fog of morphine to look deeply into my eyes, communicating her love without need for words. We, all of us, were given a final opportunity to say "goodbye." What a blessing. What a grace.

Those of you who know my mom, and the struggles, pains, and travails she's been through in the last year-and-a-half, especially, and really since the accident in 1999, will understand that while our loss of Ma is a loss that cannot be mended -- she was such a major presence in my life, especially, and the solid core and pillar of our family -- and I am suffering great grief and deep sadness, I am also experiencing feelings of relief and gratitude, that her long suffering is over.

There will be no more interminable visits to the doctors, no sudden hospitalizations, no poking and prodding and IV "sticks," no dressing changes or walkers or unappetizing nursing home food. She will not suffer pain in her back, her legs, or anywhere else; there will be no more pyoderma gangrenosum, no more osteoporosis, no more piles of pills to somehow swallow. Her lungs will never again fill with fluid, her legs swell, or her poor vertebrae compress. She will have no fear of atrial fibrillation or congestive heart failure. She will be in no danger of falling, and will suffer no difficulty swallowing. She need not fear the loss of her mental acuity or her dignity with the progression of dementia (which I think would have particularly appalled her). No nurses or techs will bother her at odd times of the night to check her vitals, and she won't have to wait for somebody to help her when she needs it.

She is free, and at peace. The "long goodbye" is over.

Now it just remains for me to learn how to live without her... and that won't be easy.

I have been Ma's caregiver for so long that I have nearly forgotten how NOT to be her caregiver. I will undoubtedly have more time to myself in the days ahead, and the nights too. I will undoubtedly have more freedom of action, of travel. But I would gladly trade it all for the sight of Ma's smile, or the twinkle in her eyes, or a hug, or the chance to read poetry to her again (or, going further back, one of her home-cooked meals, or a fresh-baked cake with homemade icing). As I used often to put it, modifying the familiar saying, "She's not heavy, she's my mother." I threw myself body and soul into caring for Ma, and it will take some time to learn to drag myself back out.

Please pray for me, friends. And for all the family, as I am not the only one who will be suffering grief and sadness at her loss. But please also rejoice with me that Ma's pain and suffering is at an end, and she is at peace.

And if you possibly can, please do love your parents, and show them that you care. They gave you life -- and if they're even halfway decent, very much more, often at great sacrifice to themselves. You never know when they'll be taken from you. Give 'em a hug, for me.

Tom

No easy way to say this... my mother is dying.

My mother -- my beloved Ma -- is dying.

I have just returned home, briefly, from what was supposed to be an hour or two's worth of visit to her at the hospital... starting at eleven o'clock this morning. I arrived to learn that she had been taken to the CCU. There I learned that her condition was -- and remains -- very grave.

As I had feared last night, her lungs were filling up with fluid: some internally, and some aspirated when she tried to drink (and, apparently, eat some applesauce). Enough Lasix to help clear out the fluid would damage her kidneys... and it wouldn't clear it all out, in any case. Her breathing was extremely fast and shallow, her heart rate through the roof, her blood pressure spiking. Even receiving oxygen under pressure, her "pulse ox" (dissolved oxygen in her blood) was dangerously low.

Thankfully, she was then aware and responsive enough to make known her desire not to be intubated (respirator w/breathing tube, eating tube, etc.), or to have heroic measures taken to artificially prolong her life. For me as her son, it is hard... but I respect her decision. She is now in a peaceful room (still in the hospital -- we never did get a chance to avail ourselves of hospice), with all her monitors off, with just a regular oxygen mask (with which her O2% had actually come up, after the pressure mask was off), fluid, and such medicines as needed to ease her pains and keep her comfortable.

My brothers and (at different times) both sisters-in-law were able to come and spend time with her, and she/we have had a lot of support from both friends and clergy. I am now taking a brief respite break at home before returning to spend the night with her (my brothers and/or sister-in-law are with her now). There has been reading of poetry, singing of hymns, some laughter, and many prayers. She is very minimally responsive, at best, and it is difficult to gauge her perception, but she appears to be comfortable, or reasonably so under the circumstances.

We were actually expecting her to pass earlier in the day, but she is showing her typical indominable will right up to the end. Notwithstanding, short of a flat-out miracle, it appears that this is the end of her 79 years' journey in this world. And she is entitled to rest. She has fought the good fight against long odds ever since the accident in 1990 that took my father and seriously injured her, and the last year-and-a-half has been especially difficult. The last six months or so in particular. I would have liked to have had her for more years -- ideally, many more years -- but that is not in our purview as mortals to determine. She is in God's hands now, where she really has been all along.

Of your mercy, friends and strangers, please pray for a good and peaceful passing, and strength for our family as we try to adjust to life without her. Myself especially -- I have cared for her for many years, now, and will miss her incredibly. More than I can say.

Tom

For what do I long?

I am currently reading a book entitled The Mist-Filled Path: Celtic Wisdom for Exiles, Wanderers, and Seekers. Despite my Germanic surname, I have a considerable amount of Celtic blood -- Scots, primarily, and some Irish -- on both sides of my family, and have long had a strong interest in and love for Celtic history and heritage, culture and spirituality.

The chapter I'm reading at the moment deals with the issue of longing, so classic and vital a part of the Celtic character and worldview. So I am led to reflect on what I long for. This is not an exhaustive list, by any means, but it is a snapshot of where I stand at the moment.

I long for the days of my childhood, when my mother was in good health and strength, and all those I loved were still alive.

I also long for the sense of connection I had then, to the world and all that was in it, especially the world of nature, which felt like an extension of myself... or vice versa, my self an extension of the natural world.

I long to live in and with nature, not apart from her... as a fellow-creature and a participant, not an outside observer, however sypathetic.

I long for a closer sense of communion with God (the Divine, the Great Spirit, the Eternal, the Mysterium tremendum et fascinans, and many other names we humans have used, in an attempt to express the inexpressible), at a time when I feel... not "cut off," precisely, but distant, the connection tenuous at best.

I long for a world in which the world of humankind and the world of nature are not separated and at odds, but integrated, to the point of oneness.

Beyond even that, I long for a world in which there is true communion, true interrelation, beween God, nature, and humanity.

I long for the opportunity and ability to do more to help bring that world into being.

On a more pragmatic note, I long for a time of greater security, personally, in which I did not feel so much as if everything in my life, from the life of my mother to my source of income to the place where I live to... well, everything... was rocky and insecure, under constant threat of sudden and cataclysmic change.

I long for more success with my writing, so that something which is so central to my sense of vocation may not be so peripheral to my occupation -- that, combining the two, my writing can become my "occupassion," to quote Joel Salatin.

And I long, deeply, for someone to share my life, to be the recipient of the immense amount of love and caring I have to give, and also to help me shoulder my burdens, bear my pain -- as I, in turn, would help her shoulder her burdens and bear her pains.

I suppose where all those come together is in a longing, a yearning, for the opportunity to use my gifts of writing, of expression, to help re-weave the rifts that our techno-industrial civilization have torn in the web which joins God, nature, and humankind... and to have someone by my side to share that dream, and that vocation.

The trick, at present, is turning longing into action. And that is not so simple as it may sound, staring at the words on the screen of my laptop............

Personal update 2/24/07

It's hard to really know whether anyone is reading this thing or not, as I am only notified if one of my posts gets a comment... But in case anyone is, I apologize for not posting much this week. My mother, who has been having health problems for the last year-and-a-half or more, and has been in a nursing facility since shortly before Thanksgiving, has been back in the hospital. Among other things, we've learned that in addition to her physical problems, she is now suffering from some form of dementia/Alzheimers. Relatively mild, so far, but very sad news, nonetheless.

She has long been the strong tower of support for and living core of our family, a true "matriarch" in a good and positive sense. I cannot possibly enumerate all the things she means to me, or all the good things she's done for me over the years of growing up, and even into adulthood. She has been my best friend and confidant, throughout my entire life (with a few blips in late adolescence and early 20s, when most of us tend to distance ourselves from our parents). To see her so ravaged and diminished by disease, both of body and now of mind as well, and at her age -- 79 is not a "spring chicken," of course, but nowadays it's not so old, either -- has been heart-breaking.

Needless to say, her situation has been taking up the lion's share of my time and mental, emotional, and spiritual energy. Hopefully next week, if or as things settle out a bit, I'll be able (and inspired) to post more. And if you are of a religious persuasion, or even if you are not, please join me in praying that what is best for "Ma's" overall wellbeing is what works out.

Thanks for your understanding.

I am now a Subdeacon in the ACA

This morning, at the 9:15 service at St. Stephens Traditional Episcopal Church, I was (along with the other postulants in the parish) "set apart" for the "office and work of Subdeacon," by the Ven. Guy P. Hawtin, Rector of St. Stephens and Archdeacon of the Diocese of the Eastern United States, Anglican Church in America. Our sponsor was the Rev. James Johnson, Associate Rector of St. Stephens.

Lest any wonder just what the "office and work of Subdeacon" might be, here is the requisite part of the "Order for the Setting-Apart of Subdeacons":

Priest: Declare, we pray thee, unto those who are gathered, what the office and work of a Subdeacon are.

Then shall the Sponsor answer,
The duties of a Subdeacon are to read the Epistles, to assist at the Holy Table, and to administer the Chalice during the Eucharist; to read the Daily Offices and to study Holy Scripture; and to present an example of Christian humility and service in their daily lives.

In effect, I have been restored to all of the duties and offices I held at Ascension, save for preaching -- and we are to offer a couple of meditations during Lent, so there will even be a little bit of that. I was functioning effectively as a Subdeacon-plus at Ascension, though without the title. Now I have the title to go with the "office and work." And I am another step on the way toward eventual ordination.

I had expected to ask myself if I felt any different following this service of installation, and had expected to answer myself, "no, not really." Oddly, though, that's not the answer I get. Although this was not a service of ordination -- that is reserved, in our tradition, for the "major orders," and this is a "minor order" -- hands were indeed laid on my head, and it seems that some spiritual graces were indeed conferred. Or perhaps it is just that the solemnity of the occasion has served to underline the solemnity of the office in my mind.

In either case, I do feel a strong sense of reaffirmation and, perhaps, destiny toward my vocation to the priesthood... which is good, as I have to confess that it was becoming a bit shaky. Many factors and experiences in my personal life have battered against my sense of call and, indeed, my faith in recent months. It may be that I needed this. At any rate, I am grateful that it occured.

Brothers and sisters, please pray for me, a sinner, as I embark on this next phase of my journey.

Mother Nature's Valentine gift

After an unnaturally warm December and (most of) January, Winter has finally moved into the north-central region of Maryland (and many other places too, of course). A slow-moving coastal storm that began Monday evening and continued through Wednesday morning has dropped between five and six inches of mixed sleet, snow, and freezing rain -- mostly sleet -- on us.

Partial melting and compaction over the last two days has further compressed this into a layer of solid, white ice. It's really quite impressive, actually, as well as quite beautiful: I'm able to walk on top of it without sinking in, something that's rarely happened since I topped ??? lbs (what, did you think I was going to 'fess up?) some years ago, and the ice crystals sparkle with a diamond-like efect. It looks much like the top layer of a glacier; in fact, the whole effect is rather glacial-looking: I keep expecting a miniature mammoth to pop over a liliputian rise in the icy landscape!

But please don't get the idea I'm complaining. A half-dozen inches is nothing compared to the many feet they're digging out from, up in northern New York State, for instance, and the teens and twenties we're dealing with is balmy compared to, say, Minnesota. In fact, I'm kind of enjoying this. I had begun to fear we wouldn't really have a Winter, this year -- and I'm grateful to Mother Nature for thus ensuring that we really will appreciate Spring when it arrives!

Personal news: Installation to the Subdiaconate

Some readers may know that, shortly prior to Advent of last year (2006), I switched ecclesiastical jurisdictions from the Episcopal Church to the Anglican Church in America, and was also granted postulancy for Holy Orders in that jurisdiction.

This coming Sunday, the 18th of February, during the 9:15 a.m. service, I (along with the other postulants in the parish) will be installed as a subdeacon at St. Stephens Traditional Episcopal Church, ACA, in Timonium, MD. In our tradition, this is installation to an office, not ordination (in the Roman Catholic Church, subdeacons are considered "clerks in minor orders"), but it is a further milepost on the journey.

I am also beginning efforts toward launching a mission parish of the ACA in Westminster, or at least in the Carroll County, MD, area. God willing, of course. We shall see what happens!

A new year, a new effort

As I stated in my profile, in this new year of 2007 I have decided to once again try my hand at "blogging." An unattractive word, if I may say so, for an attractive concept: the idea that ordinary human beings might have something to say that others might be interested in hearing (or reading).

The majority of my posts will probably be the weekly columns I write for the Carroll County Times, a daily newspaper headquartered in Westminster, MD (if you are a publisher, print or web, who may be interested in carrying my column, please let me know -- contact info is found in my Profile). These will be interspersed with (usually) shorter comments not otherwise published.

So, with no further ado, welcome to the newly-relaunched Albion's Meade! I hope you enjoy it, and that it provokes thought and reflection on some of the issues facing us as we move further into this new century, and new millenium.

Respectfully,

Tom