with in life.
last part of a eulogy that my sister and I read together in church during her funeral:
she died, mother was at peace – it was as if she had arrived at a place in her
inner landscape where she could relax, enjoy herself … and say “I love
honour parents by seeing them in a pastel fairytale light. We honour them
by seeing them as they are, as clearly as we can. And there was
nothing pastel about mother.
thought that my real mother was held prisoner in a tower, guarded by a soldier.
have seen her as a warrior with post-traumatic stress syndrome. I know nothing
about her specific enemies, but I find it easy to understand her when I compare
her to Vietnam veterans who kept fighting in isolated wildernesses long after
the war was over.
had to fight for survival, not only for herself, but for her children and for
others. And she fought, and she never gave up. And even if no one, maybe not
even she, knew what the real enemy was, this makes her a hero to me; a warrior.
And her fighting spirit is something I that I wholeheartedly can honour and
her on old 8mm films, the missionary in India giving out food in famine areas
and being greeted with garlands and obeisance – but no one filmed the work she
did in the little clinic at our mission station. People would queue up
patiently outside with open sores and physical damage one never sees in our
part of the world, and she cleaned and bandaged and stitched and helped, cooly and
compassionately – and for this heroic work she also deserves honor and
of our mother has not been easy, but she has given us so much of value, and one of her
greatest gifts was the gift of rebellion: She showed us that it is possible to
question established truths and find our own answers. And if, as we grew up,
she did not want us to question her answers … well, that is not uncommon amongst rebels.
our mother, and we declare peace over her memory.
direct translation of the Norwegian way of saying “rest in peace”.)