There are few species of narrator more unreliable than a son speaking of his mother. Indeed, many in the audience today are far more qualified than I to tell my mother’s story for I did not even show up until the second half of her performance. Nevertheless, despite my imperfect perspective as her only son, I’d like to describe not what my mother did and accomplished, but who she was.

I don’t know the reasons why my grandparents named my mother Marie Irene, but I don’t think they realized they were providing more than a name; they were providing a definition and a role in life.
Marie: Hebrew, the perfect one.
Irene: Greek, peace.
My mother: the perfect one of peace.

As I shared remembrances of with family and friends in recent days, it dawned on me what my mother’s true purpose was. It was deceivingly simple, crafty, and — to her credit — mathematically correct.

We all know of the kindness, the gentleness, and the warmth she doled out unceasingly. Taken individually, these were the acts of a great woman; taken collectively, this was the testimony of one at perfect peace. In each act, on each day, she was teaching us of the glory of where she was headed.

My mother always knew where her journey would end — a better place. Her life, then, was nothing less than an invitation to join her.

Though she loved us dearly, after 82 years she was excited, perhaps even impatient, to go and now she has passed on to this better place, a place made even better by her presence there.

Sayonara, beautiful mother. Sayonara, O perfect one of peace.