The following is what I wrote for Mom's funeral service. But I was not able to read it. It was too hard for me. Thankfully, my brother-in-law Peter had the strength to do it. He did a beautiful job.

Thoughts about Mom

I am the youngest of four boys that Lucille Klamm raised. And, admittedly, I was the most difficult. In the next few moments I would like to tell you about her and what kind of a mother she was. Because she was no ordinary mother.

Certainly a flood of memories come rushing in as I think about Mom. They come fast and my throat gets dry and my eyes well up. I am quiet for a while, and then, after a few deep breaths, I continue on. There is so much to remember and enjoy. I am sure this is what occurs with you, too.

She was my Mom, from head to toe. She was a complete person, with nothing hidden. What do I mean by that? It's easiest to explain in terms of her hands and arms and eyes and ears and heart.

A good place to start is with her hands. My parents had amazing hands. Dad's hands were very large. They always engulfed mine. His hands were like steel. Mom's were as soft as satin. In many ways, their personalities were
like their hands--steel and satin.

I think of all the things that Mom did with her hands, and yet they stayed so soft. Even on the afternoon she died--they were silky soft. Mom used her hands to strip all of the dark varnish off of the oak trim in the house. I was too young to remember it, but I am sure it was not pleasant. For most of her life, the laundry was done by her hands feeding the clothes through the ringer on the washing machine. Then she would go outside and hang the clothes on the line to dry. In winter the basement was full of clothes
hanging to dry.

Those hands made countless loaves of bread. They made an untold amount of shirts, dresses, pajamas, quilts, coats and even a sleeping bag. She canned peaches and strawberries and washed dishes, all with her hands. And not only did she wash dishes--she washed dishes in water that to me was scalding hot. And through it all, her hands remained silky soft, always ready to hold a hand or squeeze your face when she saw you.

When I think about her hands, I also think about her arms. Mom's arms were deceiving. Sometimes we would laugh while we asked her to stretch out her arm and we wiggled the skin dangling down between her elbow and shoulder.

It didn't' seem like much was there. But, believe me, there was. I mentioned making bread. Try kneading four loaves worth of bread dough in a bowl. It won't be long before you are huffing and puffing. That was hard work.

Occasionally I would help her. Right! Just when I thought it was squished around, she would sprinkle in more flour and say, “Keep going.” “Aw Mommm, it's good enough.” “No. You need to do it more.” And, because it was too hard, I would eventually give up and she would take over.

Cutting grass was the family's business and pastime--and Mom was always there. When Ken and I left home, Mom and Dad took over cutting the 15-plus neighborhood lawns. Mom never complained, but usually took her turn pushing the mower to fill the bag with grass when it was just the two of them. Hard work. Strong arms.

I can't help but wonder about Mom now. Death is a mystery. What happens? Where is she? But then again, Mom left no doubt with us where she is. She loved Jesus and He was her Lord. Mom especially knew the hymns. At a moment’s
notice Mom could recite or join in singing the great hymns of the church. And not just a few--many. It always amazed me. This memory came from deep within her.

Next I want to think about Mom’s knees and hip and shoulder. Mom's knees were getting bad. She walked many miles on those knees and her right knee gave her particular problems, to the point where surgery was scheduled to fix it up. But the knee surgery never happened. Two years ago, in the Spring, she fell one evening and broke her left hip and shoulder.

I often think about Mom's location now? Where are you and what are you doing?

Oh that's easy. She's home in Heaven dancing. She's dancing. And my guess is that Mom is square dancing. Wait. No--probably not. Mom and Dad have just finished a polka together and are smiling and laughing. Now Mom is helping others square dance. Just like usual. No more wheelchair. No more shaking legs and feet that Ken and I would see taking the next step while we transferred her from her wheelchair to the car. No more comments, as we each took an arm to help her, like, “Oh why do you bother?” or “Gosh, it's tough to get old.” But she always included, “I've got such great kids. Where would I be without you?” Either Ken or I would quickly say, “We don't know Mom, but can you take another step?!” No more. She's dancing away in Heaven!

I think about Mom's ears. She always had excellent hearing. No need for hearing aids. But I'm not thinking so much about her hearing as her listening. She always gave you her attention and listened. It was a direct reflection of her caring. Mom cared, and so she listened. One of the reasons Mom was such a friend to so many people was the way she cared by listening. I wish I had inherited more of Mom's trait of listening.

Next, I think of Mom's eyes. Beautiful eyes. For me, Mom's eyes saw me not where I was at the moment, but where I someday could be and what I one day might become. She saw so much hope and future for me. Ken would probably be quick to interject that, when it came to me, looking to the future and hoping was all Mom could do. Because I was not an easy son to raise. I was not very obedient. I fought with my brothers. Well, actually, mostly with Ken. I did not like school. I did okay in grade school at Central school. I did not do so well in Junior High. How much it must have shamed Mom when we had to go to the Principal's office together to discuss my behavior. Once in Junior High and once my Freshman year in High School.

I remember the report card discussions with Mom. I probably had them often. “Mom, what do you mean? A “C” is average, and I am average. I am just an average kid and so my grades are right where they should be.” She would stop, turn, look at me and calmly say, “You are not average. You are above average. You can do better than average. I know you can.”

Mom, thanks for not giving up on me. Thanks for eyes that saw and believed what I could become and not what I was at the time.

Well, I have told you about her hands and arms. I mentioned her knees and hip and shoulder. Mom's ears and eyes. I guess the part of Mom to speak of last would be her heart. It was Mom's heart that has brought most of you here today. Her heart was always ready to love you. No matter if it was her own family or the person she’d just met. And it was not uncommon that once she met you for the first time, she hugged you. Mom's heart was always ready to love and share.

Thanks for listening to my thoughts about Mom. I love Mom and I miss her a lot already. She was the only Mom I had. I am the most fortunate person to have her as my Mom.

Love,
Tom

The following is what Kim wrote and presented at Mom's funeral service

Faith, Hope, and Love

faith, hope, and love. . .These are the words that defined Mom.

Faith
Her faith was simple. It was demonstrated by her daily prayers for strength to face the challenges of that day and by the simple blessing said before each meal. Come Lord Jesus be our guest and let these gifts to us be blessed. She believed that all of life was a gift to be received and shared.. She did not need nor want what she did not have. Regardless of her circumstances and they weren’t always easy, she was the most genuinely content and profoundly grateful woman I have ever known.

Hope
I don’t think I’ve ever known a more optimistic person either. Many of you will remember the Cubs calendar from the paper that went up on the refrigerator in April and didn’t come down until October. She marked the wins in blue and the losses in red. It didn’t matter how red those calendars got there was always tomorrow and when the tomorrows were all gone there was always next year. Grandma didn’t give up on people either. Whenever I complained about a difficulty with one of the children she would remind me that he or she was really a good boy or girl, She encouraged me not to overlook the difficulty but to look at it from a different vantage point. And when I did, there was hope.

Since Dad died, hope in Mom took a different turn. In those first months after his death she often woke at night and got up to see where he had wandered to. She would get as far as the living room, then remember he was gone. After her fall and subsequent surgery she became more confused from time to time. Dad was just down the hall or in the other building wasn’t he? Were we going to visit? At first I would remind her about Dad but after awhile it seemed more important to just accept that as part of who she was now. Then recently as the references to visiting Dad or going home became more and more frequent it began to occur to me that maybe it wasn’t Mom who was confused after all, but me. Maybe that room that God was preparing for her was just down the hall next to Dad’s. Maybe that veil between this world and the next was getting thinner for Mom. Maybe she had a different vantage point and as her body failed she saw hope for her future.

Love
Some people say that love is blind. I don’t think that is true. It certainly wasn’t for Mom. Mom didn’t like complainers, or people who were always so right about everything they couldn’t allow for a dissenting opinion, but she chose to look beyond those things to see the good intentions underneath, or the loneliness, or just the humanness. They never kept her from the practical work of loving: offering a warm greeting, a genuine smile, a helping hand, a listening ear, cookies and conversation on the front porch and an invitation to come back.

Love never fails. Mom loved until the end. In my last conversation with her the day before she died I began to have a few tears as she told me about her wishes for hospice. She looked at me and asked if I was sick? “No Mom,” I said. “It’s just hard to watch you so sick.” She held my hand and nodded. In her most difficult hour struggling to breathe her main concern was the health and welfare of those she loved. She knew we would miss her; she was trying to help ease the transition. When I asked her if she were afraid to die she answered emphatically no.

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love. Thanks Mom for showing us how it’s done.

Grandma Klamm

Here is my grandma.
See? She is old.
She can't walk.
See? She is in a wheelchair.
She is wearing her
white sweatshirt
with the red flowers.
She can't get dressed
by herself.
She needs help.
She is old.

Here is my grandma.
See? She is looking at me.
She is smiling.
She loves me, even
if she doesn't
remember my name.

Here is my grandma.
See? She is old.
Her knees hurt.
She can't walk.
She's gone
and she left
without saying goodbye.

(A poem written by Amy Jo, Autumn, 2007)