Eulogy

Linda Burchfield.  How might a person describe her?

Irreverent.  Gregarious.  Childlike.  Fearless.  Maddening.  Loyal.  Loving.

To know her was to never forget her, even if she didn’t always remember your name.  Hundreds of Punkinheads and Pookiedoos would attest to that fact.

And to know her was to forever have someone on your side, in your corner, because if someone in your life needed whoopin’ (figurately OR literally) you could count on her to have your back.

Here are some other things you may know about her.  At birth, the doctors said her congenital heart defect would cause her death by age 16.  Mama proved them wrong.  In high school, her guidance counselor told her that she, quote, “wasn’t college material,” and that she should give up her dreams of higher education.  She decided to ignore this piece of snotty and unsolicited advice and earned her degree in early childhood education instead.  After she was suddenly widowed, she raised two daughters by herself, left with nothing to break her fall except faith and an obligation to survive.  And later, she moved to a different state and created a vibrant new life for herself, a happy third act as a Georgia Bulldog. 

She was the life of the party.  A ride or die chick.  The choir member who sang “Victory in Jesus” the most ebulliently - and most off-key - and the one who hollered the loudest at every graduation and wedding she ever attended.

That was Linda Burchfield.

Many of you know the last several years of Mama’s life were very difficult.  Those who knew her best knew her history of untreated mental illness.  After retirement, whatever physical barriers that had held the worst symptoms at bay broke.  Our family was tasked to shore her up and help her the best we could. 

Diagnoses were shifted and medications were rotated, decreased, increased.  Eventually, her doctors – one of the only geriatric psych teams in East Tennessee - settled on two names: schizo-affective disorder and vascular dementia.  In true Linda fashion, even her prognosis was complicated and unusual.

These health problems were part of Mom’s makeup; she did not invite them in.  Nor did she win some sort of battle in the years her illness was dormant or lose in the years her illness was active.

I share this information not to dishonor Mama’s privacy, but to shine light on the dark shame so often associated with mental illness. There is no need for shame, no need for anything except compassion and acceptance.  I have chosen to reject the despair of these last years and to deny the hopelessness that waited quietly in the shadows day after day, eager to drown me as I desperately tried my best to be her advocate. 

I will not allow grief to have the final word.  There was such an outpouring of love, such a strong presence of the divine the last week of Mom’s life that there is room for nothing except gratitude and awe.

Mama understood her time on Earth was drawing to a close.  On December 17, her nurse called to say Mama had awakened in the late afternoon and asked for help with the phone.

“Can you get in contact with my family?” she had asked.  “I need to tell them I love them.”

Her nurse dialed my number and handed Mom the phone.

“Heather,” she said softly, “I think I’m dying.”

I bit down on my lip so I wouldn’t cry.

“Yes, Mama,” I said.  “I think you are, too.  But you don’t have to be afraid.  Jesus is there with you.”

Somebody was, at least.  The week before, she’d asked me who was sitting on the couch in front of her.  There was no couch in her room, but I have no doubt someone was keeping watch.

“I love you so much,” Mama said.

“I love you so much, too.  We all do.  Mama, if you see Jesus or Daddy or someone you recognize, it’s ok to go with them.  They’ll take you to Heaven,” I told her.

“I love you so much, baby.” She said it again, and then handed the phone back to the nurse.

On January 6, Ben and I were visiting with Mama.  She asked for grape juice, and then for something else.

“Take my pictures home with you,” she said softly.  Mom’s room was covered in pictures of family and friends.  In fact, if you are listening to this service, your picture likely hung on her walls.

“Which ones?” 

“All of them,” she said, and I knew her time was short.  As we took them down, I briefly brought the pictures closer so she could see them for the last time.  Her eyes lingered the longest over the ruby-red cardinal Daddy had drawn for her before I was born.  My greatest comfort was that she would see him again soon. 

January 13 was the last time Mama told me she loved me, but that wasn’t the only thing she said.

  Rebekah, Ben, and I walked into her room that night. We had just shrugged off our coats and put our things down when Mama said, “My three angels are here.”

  She said it in a way that sounded like an announcement, like we had interrupted a visit, one in which introductions need to be made.

  “Mama, do you mean me, Ben, and Bekah are your three angels?”

  “No,” she said without hesitation or confusion, and I believed her, because she was my Mama.  If she said there were angels in her room, there were.  And that means angels will draw near to each one of us when it’s our time.  We don’t have to be scared.

  The balm that heals my shattered heart is the belief that Mama still lives, unfettered from her frail human body and utterly, joyously free, now in the presence of a loving God forever.  Free to dance with careless elation, free to worship with abandon, free to be face-to-face with the Creator who sustained her through every song of praise and every flood of anguish. 

Mama’s illness might have been the last chapter of her story, but it will not define her life. 

So, what will?

Her love for you.  Her love for me.  Her love for us all, and the fact that she loved each of us for who we are.  Mama wasn’t the judgmental type.  She accepted you at face-value, not expecting you to be anyone but your own beautiful self; only asking that you accept her in the same way.

I’d like to think that when it was Mama’s time to go to Heaven, there were so many people lined up to walk her Home that God had to send a party bus to pick her up.

I can almost hear their eager voices.  They’re the voices of people who loved her as much as we did. 

“Y’all hop on board!  We’ve got to go pick up Red!”  Uncle Ken would say.

Aunt Patsy climbs aboard, and then Mammaw.  Then my Grandmothers Willa and Retha, my Uncle Jack, Uncle Ronnie, and our friend Curtis. 

Wilma, Lori, and Leslie get on next, wearing sequined party hats under their halos and dressed to the nines.

“I can’t wait to introduce her to Elvis!” Wilma says.

Finally, Daddy climbs the stairs to the bus and takes the first seat behind the driver, leaving the seat beside him open. 

“Are we ready?” asks the driver.  “It’s time.”

Back here on Earth, Mama drew her last breath, surrounded by music. Sissy sang to Mama as she departed, a tender farewell on the way to the homegoing celebration. 

Then, Mama arrived !  

How I would have loved to see the look on her face, her instantaneous remembrance of self, her delight in reunion, and her realization of the glory of Heaven. 

This is how Mama’s earthly story ended and how I’d like to believe her eternal story began, with love upon love upon love.  This is also how I believe our stories will continue, each precious memory of Linda Burchfield a bright drop of love and affirmation in a world thirsting for something meaningful.

May each memory we share be a reminder to stand up for the little guy, to look out for one another, and to love without condition.  And may each of us leave the world a better place than we found it, just like Linda Burchfield.