Elizabeth B. Lilley, d.
There are less-than perfect days in
Elizabeth B. Lilley
died of emphysema in
We received the call
at dinner time in
Amid all the necessary
arrangements, one of life's most difficult duties was to respond to Dad's
desire for a few words to be spoken at her funeral. The words are intensely personal,
but "Mom" is a universal concept shared by us all:
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When
we were growing up, it was... "Hi Mom; what's for dinner?" or,
"Hi Mom, I'm home from school ... going out to play ... see you
later..."
My
Mom, our mother, grandmother, wife, friend, has passed and we both mourn our
loss and celebrate her life.
Gold
miners talked of the "mother lode";
Generals
talk of the "mother of all battles";
There
is "mother of pearl," the "mother ship," a "mother hen" ...
...but
we don't call any of these "Mom." Gold veins
run out, battles are won or lost, but "Mom" is always, and
special. We each get only one, and this graceful lady was the best. She isn't really gone. Because we are here,
she is here. That's an honor, and a tall responsibility.
Mom's
last moments properly belong to her and to Dad alone, a supremely personal
time.
But,
all the family visited with Mom over the Mother's Day weekend. She was
physically weak, but very much "present." We had the opportunity to
give her one of those cards with the gentle, wise (and fitting!)
"Peanuts" comic-strip characters saying, "You're the
greatest!" I am so glad we had the
chance to say "we love you" once more, out loud.
There
are heroes here --
As
their 61 years of life together began to come to a close, Dad has always been
there for her and for us, in any role, all day every day. Family, friends and
neighbors continue to help and to care. And mom herself, with never any
misconceptions about the outcome, had a strong sense of self:
"I
can't be in charge any more; you'll just have to take care of each
other."
When
we would come to visit, a strong sense of us: “ ... my
family all together..."
And
throughout it all, her sense of humor, which sustained her and us together: " ... you tell me I am gentle and kind, but I can be a
real rattlesnake when I have
to!"
Mom
is who you are when you just can't stop caring.
Mom,
we love you. Our favorite picture is of you working in your flower garden;
planting, pruning, shaping, helping things grow. It's a fitting image that
extends to life far beyond those flowers. Your grandchildren Karen and Suzanne,
and my sister Ruth and I share your heartbeat -- so strong in you until the
fuel it needed just quietly ran out. Your presence influenced who we were, and
now even in your absence, you influence who we are and what we will be. We can
love, because you loved us.
Mom,
things will never be quite the same again, but they will feel better than they
do now. In time, we'll come to remember you by your life, not so much by your
passing. We know now that you heard that glad shout at your journey's end:
"Here she comes!"
... 'bye Mom; see you
later.
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Santa Barbara is home now,
but this particular return trip from
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Almost
exactly one year later, immediate family members gathered informally on what
turned out to be Memorial Day to have some time at Mom's graveside. As we quietly remarked about the bright
flowers and almost cheerful memorial holiday decorations and then fell silent
for a while, nearby on a hill a lone piper played "Amazing Grace" for
another family and their memories. Nevertheless, we knew he was playing for us, and that Mom used that perfect moment
to let us know she indeed is all right.
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Robert
G. Lilley -- d. October 8,
2002
Our world holds its breath as
a good man departs. And before we exhale, deflated, diminished, we presume to hope:
“It’s not really true – just a clerical error, or crossed telephone wires – a
typo – the bureaucracy. But no: the bell tolls, and this time it unmistakably
calls to him – to us.
We hold our breath for a
while longer, quietly remembering, remembering…
Robert Lilley was the last of
six children, in a family whose elders saw the end of the Civil War, the Gold
Rush, and on forward to the Cold War, the Internet and beyond, he was born in
1912 and married in 1938. He leaves his children Ruth and me, his grandchildren,
Ellen’s and my daughters Karen and Suzanne, and the great grandchildren of
their Andy Harshman and Duncan Chalmers families.
Betty Bouldin, his wife of 61 years, passed away just
over two years ago.
He spent his 90th
birthday last February with us, and with the Harshman
family and first great-grandson
A good man by any measure I
know. What words?
Trustworthy, loyal, helpful
– you may recognize the Boy Scout
Creed here. While Ruth and I were learning it, he was living it. He could make
a simple purchase into a lifetime friendship.
Friendly, courteous, kind – When I came to
Obedient, cheerful,
thrifty – Well, I guess Ruth and I
were the ones who learned obedience! He worked hard and was respected and
recognized for it. And, he quietly made a good life for his family.
Brave, clean and
reverent – All together it adds up to
integrity.
Dad, you taught us so much,
just by living your life. I would have been honored just to know you as an
acquaintance; for Ruth and me, growing up and growing older in your family has
been our good fortune indeed.
Do we dare begin to breathe
again? We feel so drawn-tight, still
denying – willing this loss, this transition, not to have happened. But it’s time to turn the page; we now must
tend the flame, and keep the light in the window.
He did not suffer in his
passing; a mercy. But we are reminded of just how much he missed Mom these past
two years. So he holds his breath for
only a split second, in transit to that shore where he is awaited. “Here he
comes!” must surely be the glad shout.
How do I find some words that
are as special as he is?
All I can do is ask for a simple favor: “Dad, we love you. Please say ‘Hello’ to Mom and all the others
for us. Farewell. See you later…”
There was an article in a
1939 Carbide News publication featuring Dad’s research group:
