Marsha’s mother, Doris Hahn, died in late September. A memorial service was held on November 9th at the First United Methodist Church in Bloomington, Indiana. I’d like to share with you reflections spoken by Marsha and Doris’s grandson, Erin, and a prayer read by her nephew, David.
From Marsha
When I was four or five years old my father was in our carport one day working to fix the lawnmower. He had a friend helping him and they were huddled over the machine, very focused on their repair work.
I was fascinated and knelt down opposite them to watch. I had my little baby doll, wrapped in its “blanket,” which was an old, (clean), cloth diaper.
I laid the doll and blanket on the cement while I watched. In a moment, my father reached over and absentmindedly snatched up the blanket to wipe the grease off his hands, then laid it beside him.
Surprised, I quietly, stealthily pulled the blanket back over to my doll.
Moments later, it happened again! He took what was clearly to him an old diaper, completely oblivious of its intended purpose as my doll’s blanket.
This was too much.
Near tears, I went inside, found my mother and told her what had happened. She listened patiently while I struggled to speak. “It makes my stomach hurt,” I said.
“Oh,” she said, “It hurt your feelings.”
It hurt my feelings? These were words I hadn’t heard before. Hearing her say them settled me down.
- She saw my distress.
- She paid attention.
- She heard me.
- She understood me.
And she gave me some words that explained what had happened to me. (And she found me another blanket for my doll.)
Furthermore, learning the words let me know this was something normal that happened to people sometimes.
I felt so much better after that.
Over the years, some version of this story happened countless times. In our family she was the calm, clear-eyed one who solved problems, managed the details, and seemed to always know what to do.
She could be stern and was a strict enforcer of things like bedtime, manners, and correct grammar. But when you were vulnerable, you could go to her.
She listened, and she helped you through whatever it was.
She did this for our family, and for many others who knew her throughout her life. Here are some of their descriptions of her:
- “Surrogate mother”
- “Deeply authentic and understanding”
- “A wealth of wisdom and strength”
- “Gentle humor”
- “Cared deeply for all people, no matter their race, background, or religion”
- “Exemplary devotion and integrity”
- “There’s a big hole in my heart that Doris once filled.”
- “So caring at a point in my life when I needed it”
- “Guidance that kept me grounded and sane when I was struggling”
- “Kind and gracious”
- “She earned forever points when she showed up at my hardest hour.”
Thank you, Mom, for all of that care and love.
You live on in us as we strive to be our best selves.
From Grandson Erin Stansbury
I started thinking of what to say today by thinking about my fondest memory of my grandmother.
I was in university in Michigan, maybe just after my sophomore term, and I decided to drive down to Bloomington to see my grandparents. We had a nice time together, and although I don’t remember what we talked about, I remember the look in her eyes, of how happy it made her that I came to spend time with them.
You see, I don’t often remember my grandmother having a lot to say, which has made it a bit difficult as I reflected on what I learned from her over the years. She was not the type of grandma to sit me down and teach me a lesson. I don’t have the “my grandmother always said” type of stories. What she taught me, I learned through observation, through osmosis. I learned:
- She was strong.
- She didn’t need a lot.
- She was content with simple things.
- She was frugal.
At their house we had homemade muesli for breakfast, always with powdered milk.
She would never willingly part with a plastic cup, especially if it had your name on it.
She taught me you don’t need a lot to have a good life, to strive to be content with what we have.
She loved nature.
Many know of the beautiful home they had in Bastrop, Texas, surrounded by hills and pine forests. It was grand, yet simple. She loved to take long walks there every day. This is one of the places I learned to love the outdoors.
Now, with what I’ve said so far, one might have the impression that Doris was reserved, maybe even passive. Of course, that could not be further from the truth. As we all know, when she spoke, it was with AUTHORITY. This is probably the most valuable lesson I learned from my grandmother. If you’re going to say something, make it count.
So Grandma, I will miss you dearly.
And even though you’re no longer here, you’ve left with me the beautiful simplicity of life.
And your quiet smile, kindness and strength will remain in my heart forever.
Prayer read by nephew David Paine
A Litany of Remembrance — We Remember Them ~ by Rabbi Sylvan Kamens and Rabbi Jack Riemer
In the rising of the sun and in its going down,
we remember them.
In the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter,
we remember them.
In the opening of buds and in the rebirth of spring,
we remember them.
In the blueness of the sky and in the warmth of summer,
we remember them.
In the rustling of leaves and in the beauty of autumn,
we remember them.
In the beginning of the year and when it ends,
we remember them.
When we are weary and in need of strength,
we remember them.
When we are lost and sick at heart,
we remember them.
When we have joys we yearn to share,
we remember them.
So long as we live, they too shall live, for they are now a part of us,
as we remember them.
So it is…
We remember you, Doris.
Just a thought…
Marsha, Erin, David and all of Doris’s family