I was unable to write anything until about 4 hours ago. No one who knows me would call me a man of few words but for over a week, “few words” is all I’ve had. The fact is that Lisa—through no desire on her part—intimidated me, and could leave me at a loss for words when she was alive.
Lisa was the person in our family who showed up for others, again and again. She would buy gifts every year for every family child’s birthday. She called every adult every year to sing “Happy Birthday”. When you moved into a new house, she sent monogrammed towels so you had something more than your old things in your new house. When you were dating someone seriously, she was the one who consistently made the effort to connect with that person, and make them feel welcome. She made every Christmas feel like a Macy’s window, went to nearly every performance her kids were in, and took them to our family cottage every summer because she wanted to give the gift of roots, and history, and time together. She kept this up, year after decade after child after child after divorce after solo parenting after illness after setback after setback. She was no saint; she simply chose showing up over many other ways of being in the world.
As recently as a month ago, my wife Emily looked at me, for not the first time, in the wake of another struggle to get our 4-year-old and 2-year-old to bed, and said, “How is it possible Lisa did this as a solo parent? How is it possible she did this with 9 kids? How did she keep showing up?”
The struggle I had—and I understand others in my family also felt this way—was knowing I could never keep up with her. That struggle got much worse in the wake of the stroke, when I really had trouble showing up.
It’s only now that she’s gone that I have come to understand something fundamental to these last six years, and maybe some of you recognize this. In the wake of the stroke, Lisa split into two people: her essential self and The Stroke. I experienced The Stroke unreliable, sometimes bad-tempered translator standing between me and Lisa, selfishly keeping much of her for itself instead of simply passing messages back and forth as it was asked. It’s as though she was trapped in a version of C.S. Lewis’ Shadowlands—no more than a mirror image of the real world, where she was able to see us and wave to us, but unable to talk to us.
But this schism wasn’t hers alone: I also split into two people. One of them was my essential self, while the other was an anxious, grief-stricken, obstructionist governed by fear and enamored with avoidance.
Because I didn’t understand this, I have a six-year history of failing to connect with Lisa, instead spending much of the precious time I made for her wrestling with guilt and self-flagellation.
As a result of conversations over these past nine days, I now know that several others in my family were having the same struggle. This is what I now say to myself, and to those who were having this struggle:
Take time in the next week to sit undisturbed. Open the door to a quiet sitting room inside your head. Speak kindly but firmly to your obstructionist: “I trust that you were only trying to help, but it’s time for you to go.” Invite Lisa into your head. Speak clearly and directly to The Stroke: “Your unwanted work is done, and it’s time for you to leave.”
For myself, I’ll take a few moments to look around the room, at Lisa, and at myself. This is how it used to be. I’ll ask for her forgiveness. I’ll tell her I loved her just as much after both of us suffered a schism six years ago as before. I’ll tell her I thought I had more time to find my way back to her. I won’t spend too much time explaining, because I’ve already wasted far too much of my limited time with her. On the contrary; I’ll spend some of the time in happy silence, drinking in the chance to connect directly with her, heart to heart.
I love you, Lisa.
Laura Burrows Mergl
For all the ups and downs that our family has experienced in my life, the community of St. Pauls has always been a constant. St. Pauls was there with my parents for mine, Lindsey and Christian’s baptisms. St. Pauls held us up through the rough period that was my parent’s divorce. St. Pauls laughed with us as we joined two families, when my mom and Craig got married. St. Pauls held our hands, cried with us and made us so much lasagna after the stroke. St. Pauls jumped with joy with each step of progress she made in therapy. St. Pauls sang joyful sounds when my mom returned to the choir loft. St. Pauls cried tears of joy when Christian sang that solo my mom loved so much during Bible Story Theater. St. Pauls held mine, Lindsey, Christian and Craig’s hands as we held hers through the difficult times. St. Pauls reminded her that God was still speaking. And here is St. Pauls again, the ever present community of support, crying for the loss of a woman we loved, and celebrating all the ways she touched our lives.
My mom’s faith was strong, it was rare to see it waver. But her faith in St. Pauls was never broken. Some of you aren’t religious at all, some of you are even more so than my mom. But I think there is something we can all agree on. Something that we can take comfort in. Regardless of what you believe about what happens after we die, my mom is now free from the prison that was her body and mind. Maybe she is watching over us, maybe she has been reunited with her mom, maybe she has been reborn in the body of a beautiful baby, maybe she is just free. I don’t know and I’m not sure I will ever feel certain. But she did. She knew she was going back to be with God, and she made peace with her death. Now the rest of us have to figure out a way to make peace with her passing too.
In trying to make peace with the passing of my mom, I have decided to focus on love. Today is a mixed bag of joyful love (a church full of people that loved my mom) and painful love (those people mourning the loss of her). In this way love can be complicated. I think the way that my mom and I loved each other was often complicated. I have felt happy, sad, joyful and painful love for my mom. And since her passing I've felt lost, scared, helpless, sad, frustrated, tired, confused, and relieved.
I would like to share a poem that has helped me sort out some of my emotions in the past week.
“When I die Give what’s left of me away
And if you need to cry, Cry for your brother Walking the street beside you And when you need me, Put your arms Around anyone And give to them What you need to give to me.
I want to leave you something, Something better Than words Or sounds.
Look for me In the people I’ve known Or loved, And if you cannot give me away, At least let me live in your eyes And not on your mind.
You can love me most By letting Hands touch hands By letting Bodies touch bodies And by letting go Of children That need to be free.
Love doesn’t die, People do. So, when all that’s left of me is love, Give me away”
Merritt Malloy
If you believe in prayer, pray for my step-dad, Craig, who just lost the love of his life. If you believe in good energy, send it to my sister, Lindsey, who has to go out into the world without her mom. If you believe in strength, send some strength to my brother, Christian, who just lost his mom at 18. If you believe in sending vibes, send good ones to me as I navigate my future without her. If you believe in karma, send some good karma to my Uncle John, for his journey forward without his sister. If you believe in meditation, send some of your internal peace it to my Aunt Laura, who just lost one of her best friends. If you believe in God, ask God to watch down on my Grandfather, who just lost his daughter. If you believe everything happens for a reason, help this beautiful group of people accept that she was ready and we needed to let her go.
But most importantly, if you believe in love, send it out into the world for my mom. “All that’s left of her is love, please give her away”
Lindsey Dicksen Mergl
To those of you who are here to support someone close to my mom but who never met her, I am sorry you missed out on meeting a woman who cannot be described in words as simple as wonderful, beautiful, intelligent, generous, and kind.
To those who have only known her since her stroke, I’m sorry my mom was not her full self. Of course, there were pieces of her there, but you never knew the woman that she truly wanted to be and the woman that the rest of us remember when we close our eyes.
I was a few months shy of 17 when my mom had the stroke. At that time I had solid memories of her from before it happened. But those older memories have faded, and for the past week, I have been trying desperately to recall them.
Something that helped me a lot was pulling out old photos and watching old family videos. There was one video in which some of us kids, thinking it would be hilarious, secretly hid a camera on top of the refrigerator. When mommy found out, she was furious with us, of course. But as I watched it, I was able to step back into the past, and see what our family was like with 9 kids in the kitchen and only two parents to keep it under control.
It was then when I began to think about mommy’s strength.
Prior to the stroke, my mom and I had our share of arguments. (Many of you remember the overly dramatic teenager that I was, and if you don’t, I’m not sorry.) So, at that time, I never thought to appreciate her for everything she did for me and others. Not only did she put up with me; she somehow managed to:
make it through a divorce,
run a single parent home
work at least one job
plan a wedding
care for 9 children as though they were all her flesh and blood
and take care of a dog and 3 cats, including one who slept on her head
Through all that, she was actively involved in Saint Pauls church whenever she was able. She also pushed through the tragedies of losing her mom, deaths of close friends, and her own developing medical issues. I believe that she would attribute this strength to her relationship with God. But I think, thatalone, would not be giving her enough credit. Anyone who knew her could agree that her strength came from her very core and shone through many parts of her life.
During the days immediately following her passing, I was frustrated, shocked and in denial. When I told people this, some mentioned that it must be like having an “out-of-body experience.”
I think the phrase “out-of-body experience” is a perfect way to describe what my mom was feeling after the stroke. It was like she was floating above herself, watching in frustration as she willed herself to try to speak the same, think the same, walk the same or even run as she used to. She was very aware of her condition and she hated it. She hated the burden that she felt she placed on others to care for her and help her do such basic tasks that she had taken for granted.
A few years ago, mommy asked me a question about the Mirror of Erised from Harry Potter. The mirror is described as showing us “nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts.” She asked, “If you looked into the Mirror of Erised, what would you see?” I told her that I had no idea; I’d never really thought about it. Her reply was that she’d see herself the way that she used to be. I really understood then, that even with the amazing strength she showed us after the stroke, and her ability to continue on for 6 years, she never wanted to live that way.
I truly believe that she held on as long as she did, not for herself, but for others. She went through the daily pain, the hospital visits, the tiring therapy, so that she could be here for us. To support all of us as we hit new milestones in our lives, to ensure that she stayed connected with long distance friendships and remind them how much she still cared, to make sure that her siblings and father and husband were capable of standing strong and living lives full of joy, and to touch the lives of others whether they were close friends or merely acquaintances. She adored her family...really, everyone she knew.
When my mom imagined a magical mirror that showed her deepest and most desperate desire, she didn’t see a life that was in the past. She saw her true self, her full self, the self that she was holding onto inside even if it was sometimes difficult for us to see on the outside. And that’s why: I’m sorry if you first met her in the last 6 years or didn’t meet her at all. Because for the rest of us, when we close our eyes, we see what she wanted us to see; nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of her heart.
Christian Cornwell Mergl
For Lisa Beth Cornwell
My mom was a different person after her stroke. She was in pain all the time and her positive attitude towards life was diminished. At times, even her faith diminished. She would wonder, "if there was a god, how could he do this to me?" and sometimes we wondered the same things for her. But even when her faith wavered, she came to this church. She loved this place more than I can describe. I know she would be happy to see all of you here to celebrate her life.
When I was younger, I used to have this truck named "Chuck." I, in my young mind, prioritized things based on their comparison to chuck. I LOVED chuck. She would say things like, “I love you more than cookies” and I would respond with, "Love you more than chuck." This made her heart sing. Not only had I found a toy that would keep me out of her hair for hours on end, I loved her and I told her I loved her. This became a common thing between the two of us until chuck slowly disappeared. But that memory, for her, was spectacular. Just this past Christmas, Craig found me a wooden sign for my mom. I had been too late to wrap it so someone just handed it to her. She looked at it, and then looked at me, and, in front of the entire family, started to cry tears of joy. She suddenly remembered her little, curly-haired boy with his big red firetruck saying the words that were inscribed on the sign, "Love you more." This is what she should be remembered by.
Her sense of humor was something which she definitely didn’t lose in the stroke, and it brought me some of my favorite moments with her in the last several years. Not long ago my mom came into the living room to hear me play piano. She loved to just sit and listen. She walked in and saw a beginners’ duet book sitting on the piano. She asked me, “Want to play something?” For those who may not play, piano compositions incorporate bass lines on the left hand, while melody lines are played by the right hand. I asked her which hand she prefered to play. She looked at me. <holds up right hand>
There were good times and there were bad though. Just this past year, my mom was sitting at her computer working on something. We were having dinner and she suddenly turns to Craig and me and says, "where’s the cake?" We looked at each other, confused. She recognized our confusion and said, "its bama's birthday." She began to cry. Her mother, who we call Bama, passed away about 10 years ago. Since then, she has celebrated her birthday every year. She loved her mom so much and my mom had missed her every day since she passed away. Many people say that she has "gone up to be with her God" and I hope that’s true but I am sure she has gone up to be with Bama. They are happily holding hands, watching me say these words to you.
As I said, there were bad times but we must never forget about the good. One of the happiest memories I have of my mom was just 15 days ago. Noah, Craig, my mom, and I were sitting at our kitchen table, eating dinner. We were all a little tired and jokes seemed to have a much greater effect than usual. I don't know who got us started, but between the four of us, we just laughed harder and harder. There was one point where I looked over and saw my mom laughing harder than I had seen in years. Her face was turning red and her eyes started to water. Whatever it was, it was funny. This is one of the last times I saw my mom so to see her so happy brings me peace.
She always wanted to be there. For everything. Concerts, Recitals, Performances, you name it. If my name was in the program, she would do everything she could to get there. This was just who she was. She missed a choir concert one time and called me the next day; "I am so sorry I missed your concert, I really wish I had been there, etc." I told her "It’s alright, really. No big deal." In my head I thought, "are you kidding me? Mom, its a just a choir concert!" But, this had been an event on her schedule. She would spend days, weeks thinking about the next time she could see me perform. This was what she looked forward to--and she needed things to look forward to. So, for me, this concert was just walking up on stage, singing a song, and walking off. But for her, this was an opportunity to see her son grow. She held on to that with every ounce of her being.
I miss my mom. I love her so much and to see her pass is hard. But I know that she is happier now. She fought every day of her last 6 years she was here just to see the sun come up the next day and I am sure that she finally got tired. She was ready to go. She was ready to be with her lord and with her mother. She is now in peace, smiling down at us, happy.
When you go from this place, I want you to carry a piece of her with you. I want you to remember and spread the joy that she brought to every one of us. This is what she would want to be remembered by. Her smile, her laugh, her humor, her caring, her joy, her embrace. These were the things that made Lisa Beth Cornwell, a loving mother, sister, daughter, wife, step mom, aunt, cousin, and friend.