Of all the stories I could tell you about a mother on this 25th anniversary of her sudden death, I will choose it to be about the fish fillet knife she carried for protection. You’ll have to wait though, because there’s a prologue.

You’ve heard folks talk about “karma” and the concept of “what goes around comes around,” right? Aside from the fact that any true scholar of ancient Indian religion would scoff at that loose and basically incorrect definition, it’s still the one we’re going to play around with today because it’s what we here in the western world often throw into conversations when wishing someone would get what’s coming to them. Don’t deny it. I see you.

On the flip side, may I point out, that I, and most other Christian folk (hopefully) do not adhere to this “karma” business. Really truly. So speaking to our aforementioned loose definition, let me just make a statement: karma is bunk. Utter nonsense. That’s why I’d like to tell you — you may believe it or not, it’s up to you — I’ve had a big case of karma visiting me for 25 years. And I deserve it. Behold the reason . . .

Everyone on this planet learns to grieve by observation. Everyone. Now those processes can be manipulated and channeled by instruction from outside the person’s immediate family or circle, but grief habits, friends, are learned at the knee of your closest relatives or associations from an early age. Like it or not. Intentional or not. Good. Bad. Or ugly.

Some parents/caregivers/guardians/etc. realize this phenomenon and make efforts to teach and mold their children’s perceptions of death, its oftentimes predecessor, suffering, and its follower, grief, to a manageable model for their youngsters to follow. It should be pointed out too, that many of these influencers of young children have the best of intentions, but when it comes right down to it, in their own humanity and wretched emotions during intense grief scenes, unintentionally model something quite different.

All that to say, I’m not a good griever.

And by this age it’s no one’s fault but my own. At least I recognize it.

When my own mother’s mother died in 1970 the axis of the earth trembled and permanently triggered a change in how much darkness came over our home. Her passing continued to be marked yearly by lots of talk about her, a general heavy air of sadness in the house, and a rehashing of the minute-by-minute details of her last day on earth. I learned that. Eventually, secretly and with great superiority, I began to scoff at that practice. I was nine years old when my grandmother died and by the time my teenage years rolled around I’d had enough. To my credit (unusual during those hormone-drenched years) I managed to not be cruel about it, but I spoke up with observations regarding “moving on” and “wouldn’t she want us to live our lives?” Dumb kid. I was just asking for it. Of course it hurt my mother’s feelings. My grandmother, after all, was a beautiful soul. “Keep yer mouth shut, Molly,” said that steady voice of reason in my head. “Maybe,” thought I.

Here’s an example of one way my extended family met grief — one of my uncles took photos of my mother in her open casket. Sadly, I was caught unaware by one of those when visiting their house, not knowing the photos had been taken. Sitting at their kitchen table looking through albums, I had to mentally process that one quickly because I didn’t want to appear shocked or appalled or rude. So, when offered the photos to take home with me, I lovingly declined and took only the snapshot of the closed casket before the service. It’s important to respect and honor. And leave others in their own ways of grieving. It’s okay to do that. Nicely.

My mother was not in that box. She was with Jesus.

I’m not going to tell you some maudlin tale about the death of my mother. What I am going to present to you is a picture of a daughter who meets death anniversaries better than before, quieter than before, gripped less by sudden surges of that swelling up of the throat and misty eyes, and has made apologies to her kids about not modeling properly the way to stand up to it in the moment. And, I confess, I am indeed marking this day, 25 years since she left us on a Sunday evening, because I’m getting what’s coming to me. Karma if you will. But not, of course. Because that’s bunk. Nonsense.

Quickly now before I go and get back to life and the Fourth of July, I must tell you about the fish knife.

Hmmm. It’s challenging to summarize. Here we go . . .

My folks owned a retirement hotel in Rogers, Arkansas for 23 years and another one in McCook, Nebraska for about 12 years. Mom, who was not daunted by the idea of distance or solo car travel, would go back and forth between them quite often. I made that trip with her a handful of times, growling and surly and wanting to stay home, but what’s a mother to do with a teenager who seems to be missing a brain? She sticks her in the car and drags her to Nebraska. But I digress . . .

Most of the time Mom traveled alone. Dad had to stay in Arkansas and “mind the store” so to speak. She made that trip up and down I-70 in a lot less time than she should have and stacked up many a speeding ticket to prove it. I honestly don’t understand how she kept her driver’s license.

My mother did not like guns (though I witnessed her take care of a ground squirrel with a rifle in eastern Oregon once — a tale for another day). And when several folk presented her with the idea that a female traveling alone might not be the safest scenario, she decided to arm herself. Her weapon of choice? A fish fillet knife. A big one. No one could change her mind even by illustrating for her a few possible scary scenarios. So off she would go with that sucker in the glove compartment. Oy.

She was unique. Strong. Opinionated. And all of those characteristics shone through in her walk with the Lord. She wasn’t one to talk about Jesus much in day-to-day conversation. But in that Nazarene church in Arkansas where her wayward daughter found Him, my mother would get on her knees in the pew during prayer time just like a good Episcopalian. I think she was always attracted to High Church. And that’s who she was. She did her own thing. Fish fillet knife and all.

I miss you, Mama. Every single year on this day. Thanks for that.

We are celebrating American Independence Day over here. We remember the courage of generations who came before us making life better for our families. Mighty befitting for the most independent, courageous woman God ever put on this earth.

Dera Lee Mitchell Keen March 25, 1933 – July 4, 1999

So, dear ones, like my mother, arm yourselves. Maybe not with a fish knife, but with the strong arm of the Lord. And for all you Americans out there, Happy Independence Day! And remember, a couple of those larger, brighter fireworks in the sky tonight are for my mom.

Much love,

MM

Do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

Isaiah 41: 10