I knew what I was being paged for. I guess I had been expecting
the call for some time, knowing that my mother's time was near,
but still, when I heard my name called out over the USAirways
intercom at the T.F. Green Airport in Providence, Rhode Island,
at 6 a.m., I felt a nauseating churn in my stomach.
I was on my way out to the Notre Dame-Boston College football
game that Friday morning. I hadn't been back to a football game
since fall 1988 -- Notre Dame 31, Miami 30 -- and I had arranged
a trip with three of the greatest Notre Dame subway alums who
have ever lived. I enthusiastically looked forward to providing
my friends with their first look at our great campus. Funny isn't
it, how the memorable events in your life, both good and bad,
have ties back to Our Lady.
I had often wondered how I would react. I considered the possibility
that I might cry or reach out for the comfort of my wife's arms.
Other times I thought I might look for the company of my friends,
many of whom had called upon my mother or me during her last few
weeks. Still other times I thought that spending the time with
my beautiful daughter or my mischievous son would allow me some
solace, if only for a little while, so I didn't have to contemplate
what life would be like without my mother.
I worried, too. I worried that I would forget her. That the
years would pass, the kids would grow and my mother's candle would
slowly dim. I wondered and worried a lot. But I guess I never
figured that my first reaction would have me frantically rummaging
through a dark, cluttered closet, desperately searching for my
old worn-out Nikes.
This reaction was not premeditated, although in hindsight I
realized I often used running to relieve the stress and escape
the burdens associated with each bad day. And on this terrible
morning I laced my running shoes tight and began my typical slow
jog around the wind-blown lake just beyond the center of town.
I thought back, as I trudged on, slowly crawling past my half-mile
mark. I thought of all the miles I had logged on campus in the
early morning hours, before the quads became alive with the scurrying
of students. And I thought about the memories.
When I was young, I would hurry home from school each day to
catch the afternoon showing of Superman on our small
black-and-white. If I were disobedient, my mother would punish
me by revoking my TV privileges and relegating me to the backyard.
Believing I was a rather smart child, I caught on rather quickly
and soon began acting purposely disobedient in order to exact
my punishment and spend my afternoons outside. I guess, looking
back, this was the first time I realized that my mother was always
a whole lot smarter than me.
I soon passed my two-mile mark and a funny thing happened. My
typical, slow trot began to quicken, if only slightly, and the
morning chill lessened. And still I remembered. Past the Grotto
and around the lake.
I remember seeing my mother on her beach chair with a blanket
draped over her legs on cold autumn afternoons, watching us play
baseball or soccer or whatever. It didn't matter because she was
always there. I can see her out of the corner of my eye at the
very top row of the hard wooden bleachers in the local gym. Always
watching and always proud but never quiet. She told me once that
I didn't have to shoot to be an effective basketball player. She
told me that I could pass or rebound or defend and still prove
a valuable asset to my team. I wasn't buying any of that. When
I was a senior, my basketball coach bluntly informed me that I
couldn't shoot worth a plum lick. It took him three-and-a-half
years to figure out what my mother had known many missed jump
shots before. Another one of life's painful lessons.
I soon passed my five-mile mark. I wasn't sure if I was running
to get away or to catch up, but my mother, never very athletic,
stayed close to my shoulder. And I remembered some more. The revered
Basilica and the still beauty of the morning Dome.
When my grandmother died, my mother woke me from a sound sleep
on the living room couch and gave me that news. "John," she said,
"are you sad today?" I recall grumbling and proceeded directly
upstairs, content to mope in silence, knowing full well that should
I ever be in need of some grief assistance it would be provided.
Pretty soon I had gone beyond my typical stopping point, running
fast and whizzing too quickly past memories and events. And still
I remembered.
Weddings, birthdays and anniversaries. Christmas parties and
Thanksgiving dinners. Funerals and wakes. Always there. Always
involved. It was a rather amazing skill actually. Eight conversations
encompassing 20 different people and my mother could tell you
at any snapshot in time, exactly what was being discussed in each.
Just before my 10th mile, my body, if not my mind, began to
tire and I started to slow. My mother hung close, never leaving
me, and I wished with all my heart that I had more time.
Later that morning, on the way to my father's, I was buckling
my daughter into her car seat when she asked: "Daddy,"are you
sad today?" I referred back to the lessons my mother had unknowingly
taught me, and I told my little girl that I was very sad. But
that her Grandma had assured us that today would be a happy day.
Because, very soon, she would be reunited with her mother and
her father. Her sisters and her brother. And too many other family
members and friends.
And I realized, at that precise moment, that my mother would
be very difficult to forget. Not because of all the wonderful
memories. But because today she was strapped into the booster
chair in the back seat of my car, peppering me with endless innocent
questions about God and about living and about dying. My mother's
flame would forever burn bright in the eyes of my daughter.
My mother died three years ago this November. I didn't make
it to the football game that week, and by the time I had contacted
my friends, they had landed in South Bend. They lit a candle at
the Grotto for my mother and wrote a Mass card in her name. That
helped me though; I can't really explain why. But you know the
feeling. That one you get when you step foot back on campus after
being away for some time. That feeling of finally being home.
That was three years ago, but it's not just in my rearview mirror
that I can see her now. I see her in the face of her friends and
in the heart of her family. She lived a simple life. It was pure
and dignified. It was the kind of life that I have tried very
hard to duplicate -- to reach for, to run toward. But the fact
of the matter is, very few people ever get there. And on that
particular fall morning, I ran as hard as I have ever run and
once more fell short. I continue to run and my mother always accompanies
me and is always near. And maybe, just maybe, I will one day cross
my finish line, running in her footsteps.
