I’ve been browsing through photographs and memories this past week, remembering mom.
There’s so much to say, yet I struggle to find words.
It’s her birthday. And the anniversary of her death. Mom was born on January 22, 1933, and given a beautiful name: Angelique. This name is of French origin, meaning angelic. The angels carried her home January 22, 2023, on her 90th birthday. I believe mom would have been pleased that she left this life on the anniversary of her birth.
My parents became engaged on mom’s birthday in 1960. Dad had immigrated to Canada a few years prior and proposed on a visit back to Holland. Soon after their engagement Angelique boarded a plane for the first time, joining John in Canada, where they would build their life together.
Mom’s brothers thought she was brave to board a jet as passenger air travel over the ocean was still awe- inspiring new technology. Some of mom’s Dutch colleagues were frightened for her safety in the wilderness they imagined Canada to be.They warned her that wild animals still roamed the streets. Mom arrived in darkness at the home of friends where she would lodge until she and dad married.
That very first night in this foreign country, mom was awaken by the sound of a lion roaring. She hadn’t taken seriously the warnings of her friends. Had they been right after all? She was terrified! In the morning, mom confessed her fears to her new friend who kindly explained that the circus was in town, housed in the arena behind their home.
I love this story! I can picture it all. Her beautiful blue eyes wide and watchful, her face set in determination to be brave.
Daylight revealed to her the quaint town that would become our hometown. With that first scary night behind her, mom settled in and began learning the new language and culture.
John and Angelique married on July 29, 1961, Dad’s birthday. I’ve always thought that it was quite clever to get engaged on one partner’s birthday and married on the others.
Last July 29th, our family gathered at a picturesque cemetery in our hometown of Oakville, to inter the ashes of our parents. It was a sad sweet gathering of brothers, sisters, children, grandchildren, cousins, mom’s youngest sister, and dear family friends. It rained that day. We huddled under umbrellas at the vault, shared favorite memories, a few tears, and prayers before saying a final farewell.
When I sat down this week to write in honor of my mother’s birthday and passing, memories of the last 15 years overwhelmed me. It was tragic to watch Alzheimer’s rob this brave, bright woman of her life.
I thought about how childlike trust replaced the fear in her pale blue eyes when I held her hand and reassured her after she’d fallen.
I smiled as I pictured again a mischievous grin lighting her face when a bit a chocolate stuck to her lip while she ate an ice cream bar. Remembering tender moments of connection as the disease drew her further and further into its web is a gift to treasure always.
There is one memory I cherish with special reverence:
All our lives, the Dutch custom of a kiss-or two, or three- on the cheek was how we greeted our parents, and how we said goodbye. As mom vanished behind the veil of confusion, this tradition was forgotten, she no longer made affectionate gestures like this one.
One sweet November afternoon, as I prepared to leave, I leaned down to kiss mom’s cheeks. There was an instant of connection; her eyes flickered a little, she turned her face, and I felt her softly kiss me.
Mom lived for a few more years after that treasured moment, but I’ll always remember it as the last kiss goodbye.
For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:
time to be born,and a time to die;
a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
Ecclesiastes 3: 1-2,4
