Rest in peace, my most beautiful, beloved mother. I write this final farewell to your earthly existence. You were buried on a beautiful day in May. Your body rests in a fine wooden casket, entombed in a pink, be-speckled vault of steel, aluminum and plaster. Your name is shown on it, beneath an emblem of a Rose. You lay at the top of a hill, beneath a young tree. The hill overlooks the Blue Ridge mountains you loved so much. At your head lies a small garden of flowers. At your feet, a view you would have painted yourself. We will miss you dearly until that day we meet again, bathed in the glory of the Lord. Til then, I will think of you often.

Your funeral was a beautiful, spiritual occasion. I am sorry I could not read more than a word of your Eulogy without crying. It took me twice as long to finish reading it as it did when I read it to the rest of the family. I know you were there listening, but I put it here to remain for the rest of the world to see:

My Mother’s Eulogy

Good morning to all, my brothers and sisters. Today we are here to remember, mourn, celebrate, commiserate, and rejoice in the life of the indescribably wonderful woman my mother was. I have to say, first, that this is the first time I have fully scripted a speech in several years. I originally wanted to let the words come out as I spoke them, but I realized that if I did that, I would be the only one who could tell this story, and I want all to know about the joys, tears, sacrifices, and strengths this one woman experienced and shared with the people around her.

Wendy was born in Tennessee to James Oliver Grigsby, and his wife Winifred, with whom she shares her first name. She hated her first name. I remember times when she spoke of the childhood torment it brought her, not the least of which was the nickname of her first car, “Wini’s Pooh Bomb”.
She was the youngest of four kids, all raised by a Teacher and an Engineer, who imparted in her a love for knowledge and the sharing of knowledge, in a part of the world that instilled in her a love for the beauty that surrounds us all, and she learned early to reproduce the beauty she saw in nature in works of art that she willingly and happily shared with everyone.

In her youth, she experienced great torment at the hands of those around her, and felt like an outcast much of the time. In one of my last visits with her, she told many stories, which I will not relate, of the difficulties she experienced. It was these difficulties that molded and refined her into a woman of strength, courage, compassion, and love.

As an adult, my mother was often alone, particularly near the end of her life as she recovered from back surgery, but she was a person who enjoyed solitude for the peace and time it allowed her to think about whatever she wanted. In her art we can see a small piece of the world she dwelled in, and one can only imagine that if the works she created were as beautiful as they are, how amazing indeed the world inside her mind must have been!

She loved flowers and painted them often. She loved the soft, sweeping mountains of the Appalachian chain where she grew up and spent so much of her life. It is rare indeed to see a landscape she created that does not include these beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains. This land was an integral part of her vision, the way it is for most who live in this land that invades the heart. She loved the beauty of simplicity. She painted many barns in her landscapes because, of all the buildings that men make, barns are the ones that are always surrounded by nature.

As a wife, my mother somehow managed to civilize the wild Kentucky Mountain Man that is my father. And it was her hand that refined him into a man of strength, kindness, dignity, and love.

As a mother, Wendy struggled to raise 5 wily and mischievous children, one of whom had severe mental illness that forced my mother to choose between the love of her oldest and the safety of her other children, a choice no mother should ever face. This burden she carried with her, like many others that came before. In my own life, I am only now beginning to understand the depth of the physical pain she suffered with. I remember when she was only about five or ten years older than me, she would spend much of her time with an icepack on her shoulder, jaw, back, or head. But this burden, too, she carried with grace and dignity.

The burdens my mother carried were greater than many must deal with. But their weight made her stronger, and she never sought to place them on the shoulders of others, because she knew she could carry them. She even took on many burdens that weren’t hers to bear. She blamed herself for many things that were not her fault, because she could not bear to place the weight of those things on anyone else, even the mightiest of all. She knew she could bear it.

Her greatest talent, I think, was in lightening the loads of those around her. She could not stand to place her burdens on others, but never failed to give the use of her strong shoulders to those around her. In the words of Jacob, the prophet of the Book of Mormon, she used her talents to “clothe the naked, feed the hungry, liberate the captive, and administer relief to the sick and the afflicted.” She often did so without any thought to what it would cost her in time, money, or grief.

My mother was a woman of faith. She lived her life the way she did because she knew the truth of the life, sacrifice, and resurrection of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. She did not just believe. She knew. In the time I knew my mother, there was no time that she doubted in the truth of the Restored Gospel of Jesus Christ. She toiled ceaselessly to perfect herself. To make herself worthy of the love and sacrifice of our Savior. And while she knew that our Savior would forgive her for any mistakes she made, she worked to make as few as possible to reduce the pain of His suffering.

To me, my mother was a constant guide. I will forever thank her for the love she gave me. I went through many of the same struggles she did. I was bullied mercilessly in school, but chose not to burden her with the knowledge of the depth of that struggle. I think this is because I inherited her hatred of burdening others. When I reached Junior High, my siblings saw the terrible way people were treating me and let our mother know. It was then she decided to pull me away, to shield me from the agony that she knew would be ahead in my life, and took upon herself the burden of teaching me. That, thankfully, turned out not to be much of a burden. I taught myself the skills that would help me succeed in life, but she taught me the knowledge I would need to return to my Heavenly Father. And for those lessons, I am eternally grateful. And while I feel as though I have lost a heretofore unknown limb, I still feel her presence near me.

In life, my mother was beautiful. She saw beauty. She created beauty. She exuded beauty. With the voice of an angel she sang songs to us as children. She sang songs of our Savior. She sang songs of love.

In death, my mother’s life will now be seen in all things. She will dance among the clouds. She will sing with the angels. Her voice will be birdsong in spring. Her breath will be wind in the trees. She will stand before our Lord and Savior and he will say, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant. Rest well and be at peace, your work is done.”