Eulogy: Doris Hawkins

Doris Jean Barnes Hawkins

            She was a plain-spoken, down-to-earth woman.  If her tiny stature caused some to view her as demure, they were deceived, for she was a woman of fantastic strength, a forthright person who always spoke her mind, a hard working woman who was not about to be defeated or dehumanized.  Doris Jean, or “Mimi” as she was affectionately called by her family, was one of those persons whose presence made a difference in ways that matter.

            She was the kind of woman whom others sought out when they needed not only someone who would listen but someone who would understand, expressing her opinion only when she was sure you were ready to hear it.  While she rarely asked help for herself, she was always among the first responders in the neighborhood to recognize when others needed help and to act in practical ways. 

            Sometimes those practical ways included gifts of homemade baked pies, chocolate cakes with caramel icing, and cookies.  Sometimes it was her quiet, reassuring presence simply being there ready to lend a hand.

            A giver at heart, she wouldn’t ask for help when such would have been beneficial, but instead resorted to her own ways of coping.  In her seventies, the Hawkins’ boys tried to hire help to mow the lawn, but when the lawn service arrived, she wouldn’t let the mowing equipment be unloaded, insisting she could take care of her own lawn.  When the kitchen sink wouldn’t drain, she said nothing and resorted to washing the dishes in the bathroom.  (There was an automatic dish washer in the kitchen, but that was where she stashed all the baked goodies she made to keep her family from eating them—some secret hiding place—that’s the first place the grandkids looked when they came by to hang out.)  So without a kitchen sink and a dishwasher available, at a time when her husband was struggling with overwhelming illness, unable to do any repair work, dishes were being washed in the bathroom.  Had her husband, “Poppy,” not “spilled the beans” about what Mimi was doing, that kitchen sink might still be clogged up.  One of her sons, Gary, was driving past his mom’s house and there she was, a woman in her seventies, on the roof smearing tar to take care of some leaks.  It’s a wonder she wasn’t using duct tape to stop those leaks, because that’s what she used to fix nearly everything else, even her sunglasses.

            Doris and her husband, William, were partners in everything, even in business.  They jointly owned the Reliable Express Trucking Company; he was the head mechanic and she was the CEO, handling all the administrative and financial details of running a business, and sometimes she was the extra set of hands her husband needed in the garage, mostly at night when the other employees had gone.  Rosy the Riveter would have found her match in Mimi the Mechanic.  Mind you, this was in addition to raising a family of three boys.  One has to marvel at how Mimi and Poppy could combine both business and family roles without caving into chaos.  Yet one neighbor was overheard referring to the Hawkins’ household as a place where three boys who became successful themselves were raised by two happy parents.  Amazing!

            The happy Hawkins home actually was a gathering place for others beyond the family.  Many of Gary, Eddie and Bill’s friends found a second home at the Hawkins’ abode, a safe place to hang-out in an atmosphere of genuine welcome and warmth.  Most of the time, that is.  One time a friend, named Dave, was banished from the home for an entire week.  He and Bill made the mistake of staying out past curfew, and when they finally returned, Doris, who was convinced that her boys could do no wrong, blamed Dave, even though Bill was the one driving the car, and told him not to come back for a week.  The week passed, and Dave did return, and everything was restored to normal.

            Doris found much delight in active and social pursuits.  She belonged to a bowling league and a canasta club.  She followed the Pirates and the NASCAR races.  One time when she was driving the Corvette, the person riding in the car with Doris became alarmed at how fast she was going.  When asked to slow down, she asked why—the car was only going 30.  She was reading the tachometer.  Barney Oldfield had been outdone that day.

              So many wonderful memories of a beautiful life lived; so much for which to be grateful.  The family gatherings on Friday evenings after the boys had grown and begun their own families, the many luscious desserts, even the small cinnamon pinwheels whenever pies were made, the many greeting cards and other clippings stored away in nooks and crannies around the house, remembrances of appreciation from children and grandchildren over the years.  So many cherished memories!  One of the sons expressed it this way: “They gave us a lot; they went without for us boys.”  What a fitting tribute to a worthy Mom and Dad!

            Among the clippings that Doris saved are two items that reveal much about who she was.  One is a very old children’s Bible lesson picture card containing the gospel passage that Andrew read for us earlier, a lesson having to do with those hoity-toity folk who assume the places of honor in any gathering.  Obviously Doris didn’t think much of people who push their way ahead of others.

          

         The other piece carried something of the same lesson and is entitled “What Is Class?”:

“Class never runs scared.  It is sure-footed and confident in the knowledge that you can meet life head on and handle whatever comes along.

“Class never makes excuses.  It takes its lumps and learns from past mistakes.

“Class is considerate of others.  It knows that good manners are nothing more than a series of small sacrifices.

“Class bespeaks an aristocracy that has nothing to do with ancestors or money.  The most affluent blue-blood can be totally without class while the descendant of a Welsh miner may ooze class from every pore.

“Class never tries to build itself up by tearing others down.  Class is already up and need not strive to look better by making others look worse.

“Class can ‘walk with kings and keep its virtue and talk with crowds and keep the common touch.’  Everyone is comfortable with the person who has class because he is comfortable with himself.

“If you have class you don’t need much of anything else.  If you don’t have it, no matter what else you have, it doesn’t make much difference.”

            Sort of sounds like Doris herself, doesn’t it?  Never one to assume pride of place or station in life, she was a woman whose skill in managing detail and whose care for others created a climate where people could become the best they knew how to be.  She was a take charge kind of person, but that attribute was always directed to others’ well-being.

            The last few years of her life brought difficult physical impairments that meant she needed to be in a place where she could receive specialized medical care.  Then the day came when her situation deteriorated quickly, and the family was called in to be with her.  Sometimes we find it very difficult to accept what is happening to our loved ones.  During those last hours, family members were encouraging her to eat, but she just didn’t feel like it.  One of the family even said, “You made us eat all the time!” as if to suggest it was okay to do the same to her.  As loving families are wont to do, they were trying to stave off the inevitable, fussing over their Mom.  Finally, Doris shouted, “Sit Down and Shut Up!”  And a few hours later, she quietly slipped away.

            Ancient Church tradition says that when a person is in extremis or dying, it’s very important to pay close attention to what he or she says, because in that stage of life it was believed that the individual was as close to God as one can be on this side of life.  “Sit Down and Shut Up!”  It’s true, isn’t it?  There are times when the best we can do is to be still and simply be present.  Doris did that for so many others, and her final word says that when all else is finished, silence and loving presence are all that is needed.  And she was surrounded by that kind of love.  Thanks be to God.

PRAYER

           Eternal and gracious God, in death you hold us in life.  When life ends you bring us to new beginnings.

           We thank you for Doris Jean Barnes Hawkins, and for all the qualities in her life that fulfilled your purpose for her, and that made life richer because of her having lived.  We thank you for her commitment to family, friends and the larger community.  We thank you for her courage, persistence and straightforwardness in facing the obstacles that life sent her way.  For love given and love received, for defeats mastered and tasks well done, for faithful friendship, for the class and graces of soul and character that endeared Doris to those who knew her, we speak our deep gratitude.

            Grateful for this life you have given us, help us now as we now must take our leave of her earthly remains.  We give her not to death but to You, who being the Lord of Life are the Lord of death as well.  Help us to know that Doris and all whose faces we see no more are in your care and keeping.

            And draw those of us who remain in this life closer to one another, make us faithful to serve one another, and give us to know that peace and joy which is eternal life.  Through Jesus Christ our Lord.  Amen.

What if....

As mentioned in earlier blogs, the end stage of life, after retirement and one’s work is mostly done, leaves room for reflecting on the life lived, including the unsavory as well as the wholesome and the in-between events.  Out of the deepest recesses of wherever memory resides (medical science has not yet been able to locate memory storage banks in the brain) surface long-forgotten episodes.  Perhaps, the concluding life is trying to make sense of all that has been in a way that can find acceptance and move on toward whatever destiny awaits us all.

As is inscribed on a tombstone in a very old cemetery on the east side of Wheeling, West Virginia:

      “Stop stranger as you pass by here,

       As you are now, so once was I,

       As I am now, so you shall be,

       So prepare for Death, and follow me.”

Despite our attempts to avoid the inevitable, our minds one way or another will prepare for dying, even if we kick and scream in rebellion against it, and the reemergence of repressed memories is one of the ways it happens.

It happened again last night with a carry-over to this morning.  I attended a brilliant concert featuring the Petar Jankovic Ensemble.  The careful precision and flawless harmonic dynamics of two violins, a viola, and a cello led by a guitar blended with the acoustics of St. Peter’s sanctuary to produce an evening of authentic musical reflection.  This amazing ensemble, comprised of musicians from Indiana University, simply must rank among the top musical geniuses in the world.  So captivating and articulate was their performance that I felt again an indescribable stirring that comes when the soul is touched, a rare occurrence.

There was a flip side to the experience, however, and that resurfaced this morning.  Ah, memory, you are a bedeviling beast!  I know without the slightest doubt that I was meant for music, and was progressing at an early age in the pursuit of singing and playing the piano.  But then what proved to be a determinative event around age of eleven helped to stymy further development in musical directions.

Succinctly, an older teenager in the neighborhood, named Dirk (the third letter in his name should have been “c”), cleverly through seemingly innocent games like “Truth or Consequences,” introduced me to certain “carnal” ways that proved powerfully irresistible.  This was back in the days of barbarism when certain matters were never discussed, especially with parents for fear of reprisals, leaving most children at the mercy of their perpetrators.  Fortunately, today’s children are carefully instructed about how to handle would-be abusers, and the advent of instantaneous communications increases public awareness in a way that deters some of the behavior.  (So much for the idealized 50s.)

Those who study such realities as abuse have known for a long time that among its consequences on youngsters are confusion and obstruction of normal development.  Had such occurrences not happened, instead of quitting piano lessons because “only sissies played the piano” (at least in the culture where I grew up), my identity as male might not have been threatened by such things as music endeavors.  The positive affirmation about my musical accomplishments were not enough to dissuade the confusing factors of abuse, probably because most of those came from women, which inadvertently compounded the problem.  Male authority figures in those days seem to value only “he-man” activities, and the guiding role models for boys then were the John Waynes and Charles Atlases of the world.

Our life choices are never clear-cut.  My decision to enter Christian Ministry was a natural outgrowth of my being raised in The United Methodist Church.  In many significant ways during my childhood and adolescence, the church was my second home, and some of its adults were my adoptive parents.  While the road to music turned out to be the road not taken, it may well be that the church provided a way that promised safe protection from the onslaught of a testosterone-crazed domination system, however unrealistic that promise became.  If some elements of my decision to enter the ministry were influenced by that unrealistic promise, then it is no wonder that disappointments and frustrations prevailed.  The church can be just as abusive as any other segment of society.

The ministry, however, did provide many enriching opportunities to guard others against abuse and to be with still others as they worked their way out of abusive patterns, and such memories are gratifying.  Instead of doing unto others as I had been done unto, somehow I did muster up something of the Christian vision that I hope contributed to the constructive development of others.  And who knows, maybe that’s what destiny had in mind in the first place.

 

I again picked up the practice of piano and organ playing after marriage, and in spite of having only three years of formal instruction as a child, I did master on my own many of the hymns of the church (the ones I liked, which did not include “How Great Thou Art” UGH!), some of the Bach Little Preludes and Fugues, other baroque period pieces, some choral anthem arrangements, etc.  Much of that fluency and dexterity has declined in recent years because of aging and failure to practice.  But the love of music continues to make me wonder, what if….