“Everybody becomes a saint at death.” My dad said something like that after attending another funeral. He wasn’t talking about the biblical concept of sainthood which we have bestowed on us by Christ’s death and resurrection. He was referring to the fact that sometimes it’s hard to recognize the person in the eulogy when all their qualities are magnified and their shortcomings swept under the carpet.

Being the honesty seeker that I am, I have to say from the outset that my mom wasn’t a saint. In that loose definition, she wasn’t much of a sinner either. She was, at worst, an uncomplicated woman who focused on appearances, shopping, and things that seemed of minor importance to me. She didn’t think deeply about life, accepting most of what came her way with a generally happy heart. (I’m realizing that it is no small accomplishment in life to be content.) She lived in a social context (church) that was comfortable and was friendly in her neighborhood. She didn’t rock the boat at home, but served the family by cooking and cleaning and sometimes running interference between stronger personalities. She faithfully attended church and served when asked. She read her way through the Bible almost every year but rarely talked about the impact it was having on her life.

She kept a clean, neat house and was frustrated by clutter and spots. Late in her life she could still see bits of debris on the carpet from across the room and order someone to get the sweeper out to remedy the problem. She was able to fit more things in a cabinet than I ever could by carefully placing each item in the right place for a tight fit. She even has organized plastic containers, a skill that has eluded me all my life. To the end of her life, she was a diligent laundress and never–as far as I know–went out in public with a brown spot on the front of her clothes. She was very concerned about how she would look in her casket, even asking if we should take her own make up to the funeral home along with the dress she chose (and revised a couple times.) She was a hawk for checking my Dad’s appearance and frequently frustrated when he didn’t measure up to her standards. (He drove her crazy for years by hanging on to a faded red stocking cap and worn corduroys.) It was her mission in life to keep him appropriately dressed. To the very end, she thought about shopping for new furniture and getting her carpets cleaned. (I’m hoping the Lord allows her to shop for the furniture in the place he has prepared.)

Yet, she was well loved within her church community. She helped put together hundreds of church suppers, funeral luncheons, and showers. She wasn’t the creative force behind most of the events, but she was always willing to lend a hand to the process. She was warm and friendly and helped visitors feel comfortable and welcome. She invited numerous people to her home for meals and regularly took ladies out for lunch. When asked to mentor younger woman, she faithfully accepted the challenge. For a few years, she led a girls’ club in her home for the teenage girls of the congregation, providing them with a place to gather on Monday nights and guided them in discussions each week. When a monthly ladies ministry, Sister Act, was in full force, she was a willing participant in skits, fashion shows and Christmas teas that supported the mission of the gatherings. She also regularly attended Bible studies and small groups and diligently prepared her lessons ahead of time. She also served in the nursery at MOPS for many years, caring for the preschoolers while young mom’s were given an hour or two of respite, fun and teaching away from their children.

Another sphere where my mom faithfully served and enjoyed great fellowship was in serving at camps. Mom spent many years cooking for a week at Upper Peninsula Bible Camp and many more years serving at SWATT (Seniors With Ample Time and Talent) at Bair Lake, where a team of retired folks gathered twice a year for a week to prepare the camp for the summer season and spruce it up again in the fall. Mom was usually found in the kitchen washing every dish and utensil and scrubbing the kitchen until it gleamed.

For many years my mom made lamb cakes at Easter. They were often made for her own grandchildren but when they’d grown up, she continued to make one or two a year and give them to families in the church, a special gift to young children. (Lamb cakes require a special talent–and sometimes a lot of toothpicks–for keeping the head attached. I never really mastered that.)

And she loved her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. As a fairly new grandmother, I am not sure that this required any special talent or love. I think all grandparents must love their grandbabies, but Mom and Dad seemed to take a special joy in this time of life. When her kidneys failed in October, it was the great-grandchildren that were her reason to keep going. She loved every visit, card, picture and phone conversation she had with them.

Maybe she wasn’t a remarkable woman and yet, she was well-loved and appreciated by her friends and family. She made wonderful rolls and perfect cheesecake. She made oatmeal and chocolate cookies to my Dad’s unusual specifications (flat, not thick but still chewy.) And every year she made mounds of Christmas cookies to share with friends and family and Christmas bread for my father. She dressed well and kept a pleasant house. (I believe it was one of God’s graces to her that she never needed to move out of this last house that she loved much.) She served her family well, as well as her larger chapel family.

And I have to say this: She died well. When facing her death she was completely unafraid and resolute. She decided to discontinue treatment when we were still waffling a bit at the end (a surprise) and she never once questioned whether she was going to heaven. She rarely talked about longing for heaven but was ready and confident when the time came. She was also uncomplaining, appreciative and kind to everybody who cared for her. She handled the indignities of aging with grace and quietly waited for the Lord to take her home. No great words of wisdom, just a gradually letting go of her grip on life, a great peace.

That’s actually a pretty decent legacy.

* Saints and Sinners. I just want to be clear about this: my mom was a sinner in a real sense. She may have been a nice person but she still fell far short of God’s righteous standard and desperately needed God’s grace for her life on earth as well as her eternal life. Her very real hope of heaven was not based on her goodness, her church connections or any of her busy service towards others. Her hope was in Jesus and his finished work at Calvary. She is a saint because Jesus made her one.