Mother- Mrs. Beverly S. McIlwain

One of the most difficult things for me, and probably for most, is to express the complicated, contradictory, and often painful ties of love that have been built up around my family through the years, especially with my mother. You love them so much, it hurts and at times, you hurt them. My mother signifies to me the unwavering power of beauty, grace, humility, and patience in the face of turmoil that most, I hope, will never see. She can also drive me crazy. I will never understand the rationale of not only keeping the front door locked at all times with 5 different locks but not even having a key so WE can get in. Apparently, this high tech strategy will deter burglars. I have yet to feel the pure joy of walking up to our family home, climbing up the front stairs onto the vast front porch, taking out my key, unlocking the front door, and entering the foyer. Although, the back door is has been established as burglar proof and we are free to come and go as we please, especially at night when it is dark and in winter, slippery as hell. This philosophy she has held dear for 40 years and counting. And that is just the tip of the iceberg.

Regardless, I always knew she was special but I never fully comprehended in how many ways until late. She has shown courage and strength in ways I might never have otherwise seen in this world; never faltered in reacting to the most hurtful and stressful events with love and grace. I, being 50% cynic, or what I would like to call "a realist to certain people's bad intent when it shows its ugly face", have struggled in comprehending her almost otherworldly wisdom and joy. At times, almost thinking it a side effect of clinical delusion. How can someone be so kind and joyful when so much for her has been a struggle and a loss? I have come to learn that that is true strength and the rest of us are just whining babies. I can be forever grateful to her for her constant devotion and generosity in the face of my own selfish bouts of self loathing and projection, her constant inventory of kind words when I can't find them myself, and reminding me who I am when I occasionally forget. I am grateful that she really knows how much she means to me, even when we clash like fighting goats about the importance of, or in my opinion, lack of, Jack Van Impe, and the like. I find that in the places we polarize in thought, we secretly enjoy living through one another. Where I tend to push buttons and throw caution to the wind, she would never . But secretly, she loves to live vicariously through me, safely, in the stories I share. Just as I, though too prideful to say I listen as much as I do, secretly hold dear all the values and lessons she has learned and shares with me that have kept her going with the spunk of a 25 year old. We sing the same tune, just in two different languages. This is her painting.