A Mother's Soul

It wasn't until after my mother's passing that I realized she was, indeed, the most influential woman in my life. In hindsight, her story is why I decided to commit my life to telling my own story and helping other people tell theirs.

I’m a writer by trade, having published almost 40 books under multiple names. Not a wordsmith. Not a master of words, but instead, someone who has a way with the written word. But that day in July 2015, when I found myself having to deliver my mother’s eulogy, I was at a true loss for words.

Joan Ellen Windom, Joanie to some…Joanie Roni. Mammaw to her grandchildren, Mom and Mommy to her daughters. And my personal nicknames for her: Mumsy and Mammothy.

Those who knew her found it unbelievable that any offspring of Joan’s could ever be at a loss for words, considering she was a woman of many, many, and plenty of words. Some of those words I heard her repent for quite often in church.

At most funerals or memorial services, we usually hear all the good things, memories and characteristics about the person being honored that make us smile, laugh or nod in agreement. So, when I put pen to paper to begin to try to sum up my mother’s almost 63 years on earth in ten minutes, I was bemused, and honestly, a little uneasy when the direction of the eulogy went in a totally different direction than I had planned. So much so that when it was time for me to deliver the eulogy and the words came out of my mouth, some people gasped.

“I am so glad my mother is gone.”

My selfish flesh would have wanted to keep my mother here on earth forever. Her pain would then become my pleasure. Never mind that she was weak, fragile, lethargic, and hurting. “Mommy, I want you to be here for me no matter how much it hurts you.” That’s a selfish act, one that some of us might even carry out daily with people in our lives who are strong and healthy. “I want you here for me no matter how much it hurts you.” Sometimes we have to let things and people go. Because without even knowing it, holding on to something that needs to be let go of could ultimately hurt and hinder us as well.

I was glad my mother was gone, for on this earth the pain and suffering she once endured became no more.

Before writing my mother's eulogy, I researched what a eulogy was, who was to give it, and what one should say. One thing that was consistent in my findings was that in giving a eulogy, everyone doesn’t have to be in agreement with what you say, but it has to be the truth. Armed with that single fact, I stood before dozens of people and told Joan Ellen Windom’s truth.

"Joan was hard, had a tongue that could slice you in half," I said. "She wanted what she wanted when she wanted it, how she wanted it, and however many times she wanted it. She was no nonsense, never diplomatic with her words, sharp, a handful, could give you the business whether you deserved it or not, and would call you a dummy if you did something dumb."

I told of how for as long as my mother could walk, she went to church every Sunday and sat in the same spot. "Bless the child who didn’t know any better and asked her if she would scoot over so they could sit down. "

There was a time when I used to think my mother was mean-spirited and hateful. But as I mentally re-read her life story, I realized that she was none of those things. The person I had dealt with for so many years was not a mean and hateful woman, but a young girl whose uncle violated her. A young girl who didn't have an active relationship with her father. A young girl who got pregnant in tenth grade and got kicked out of school for being pregnant. A young girl who was abused horribly by some of the men in her life. A young girl who had turned to drugs and alcohol to ease the pain. For all those years, she'd been a grown woman carrying the soul pains of her younger years.

For the repast, which was held in my home, I placed pictures of my mom around the house, ranging from her as an infant to her more recent years. As I set these pictures out, all I could do was cry, not just tears of sorrow, but tears of pain. Not my pain, but my mother’s pain. Not the pain of her physical ailments that she suffered from the last few years of her life. Not the pain everyone could see she was in just by looking at her. But the internal pain most never knew about unless she’d told them. The pain I could see in her eyes in almost each and every one of her pictures because I knew bits and pieces of her story. Ironically, I’d learned the very day I sat down to write my mother's eulogy there was a name for it; there was a name for that type of pain. It’s called “Soul Pain.”

I looked at one picture of my mother and wondered, Was this when she was being touched by her uncle? Was this when she was raped? Was this when she was beat up, hit, called out of her name, robbed, lied on, stolen from, cheated on? Was this when she had to "do what she had to do" out there on those streets in order to feed her children and her drug habit? Those pictures, collectively, told some of her story, and it was my aspiration to interpret it during the eulogy.

Yes, I’d much rather had been sitting in one of those chairs, mourning, crying and allowing someone else to eulogize my mother, but it was the very final task of honoring my mother and I had to be obedient.

There was pain my mother carried for so many years that she was never quite able to let go of…not completely…not in the natural. I know in my heart those soul pains, memories, hurts, regrets, guilt, shame and sorrows of this world that tried, and sometimes succeeded, at tormenting her soul lost their power and existence when she left this earth.

Though she was the one who endured the aches and troubles, it was not for her or about her. It was for me, it was for my sister, and it was for you. For each of us, our life journey, our testimonies, and even our pain--all the things that make up our life story--are not for us. It's to change, bless help, touch, alter, and even save someone else.

Former United States President, Bill Clinton, years back, right after he had his first memoir published, said, "Anybody over fifty owes it to his family to write down everything that's happened during his life and pass it on." I wholeheartedly agree. Only I don't believe anyone should wait until they are 50 to start sharing their story, as tomorrow is not promised. Tell your story now!

Sadly, I never got my mother's full story from her. I'm only left with those few bits and pieces I was able to gather over the years. As I child and growing up, I would often ask her questions about her life, with hopes that I could understand mine a little better. But with some of those questions came a look in my mother's eyes of guilt, shame, regret, humiliation, and embarrassment. Not wanting her to relive whatever pain my questions were causing her to experience, I always backed off, finally to the point where I stopped asking altogether. So, on July 14, 2015, not only was my mother's story buried with her, but so was part of mine. The answers to questions that burn through my soul--causing soul pains of my own--the answers that were embedded deep within my mother's soul--will never be answered.

On the outside looking in, my company, Path To Publishing, looks like it's only a full literary service provider helping others to write and publish books, build a book business, and create multiple streams of income to sustain their book business. But our mission, message and purpose goes beyond that. We're about empowering you and others with YOUR message, system, strategy, techniques, and testimonies. Whether it's for personal development and growth or business development and growth, there is something about your story that can help someone else.

Today, when I think of my mother, I'm strengthened by the strength she must have had to be able to carry so much weight around for all those years. To say that I admire her is an understatement. I'm moved by her. I'm incited by her. And even though I don't know her entire story, the parts that I do know, just as much as the parts that I don't, make me the strong woman that I am and am still becoming. Those same pictures I laid out during the repast, I still display in my home. I look into her eyes in those images and continue to pull on her strength daily.

This year I'll be celebrating yet another birthday without my mother. If my mom could stand before me with a birthday gift in each hand--a customized Rolex watch in one hand and her story in the other--but I could only choose one, without a doubt I'd choose her story.

Not having my mother's complete story has played the role of a double-edged sword throughout my life and career. There are so many holes I can't fill in my own story by not having gotten the answers I needed from my mother's. But because of that void in my own life and story, it makes me work that much harder at ensuring as few stories as possible are buried without first having been told. I'm driven daily to continue to write and publish my own stories in excellence as well as help others do the same. And I have the most influential woman--the most influential person--in my life to thank for that. Thank you, Mom. Your story, whatever it may be, is not in vain.