Saying goodbye to my Other Mother....

Let parents bequeath to their children not riches,

but the spirit of reverence.

- Plato

When I was growing up, I had the great fortune to have two loving parents.  They are both gone now and I miss them.  I really wish that they would have lived long enough to see their sacrifices to fruition: to celebrate and participate in the life that I now live thanks to them.

And yet, another aspect of the truth of my journey is that my parents both fought their demons throughout my young life and I was often the collateral damage.  Into those breaches of safety and security would often step another adult who would care for me and offer me succor and sanctuary, my mother's lifelong best friend, Vera Champion Woodruff.  Mrs. W, as I have always called her, was a haven in a storm, someone who could make a bad situation feel much better as well as make a good situation feel great.

And now she's gone: she passed away quietly a few days ago, just before Thanksgiving.  So, in the spirit of thanksgiving, I offer this tribute.

Mrs. W and my mother met in high school when my mother moved with her family to Columbia, South Carolina.  In my mother's retelling many years ago, they became fast and lifelong friends.  They graduated high school together and went to Bennett College together, transferring after a year to Fisk University from which they graduated.  One notable difference between the two is that, one year, Mrs. W, then known as Vera Champion, was the Sweetheart for the Omega Psi Phi fraternity, of which my (future) father was a member at the time.

They then went off to graduate school to get their Masters degrees in Library Science - my mother at the University of Michigan and Mrs. W at Case Western Reserve - and thereafter settled in Detroit, where I grew up.  They both became distinguished educators and married - in my mother's case, to her college sweetheart from Fisk, in Mrs. W's case to a dashing young up-and-coming businessman and executive named James Woodruff - and had a single child.

Mrs. W's daughter, now Maria Woodruff Wright, and I were only children of best friends, so we've been the only siblings that each other have known, in addition to my cousin Paul "Bobby" Thompson, III, who was also an only child of close cousins and rounds out our triumvirate.  In fact, so close were Maria, Bobby and I that it wasn't until we were about 25 years old that Bobby finally figured out that, technically speaking, he and I weren't related to Maria by birth but by love.  That's how close we've always been and, hopefully, will forever be.

So close that for many holiday celebrations, the entire Shivers clan - my mother's family, most of whom had also settled in Detroit - would gather at Mrs. W's home on Santa Rosa.  In fact, it turns out, Mrs. W was related by love to my entire family on my mother's side, such was her impact on and influence in our lives.  I would estimate that about a quarter of our family celebrations were held in her home, a rotation that most often included my home, my cousins the Thompsons' home and one of our aunt's homes (i.e., Bertha's in my youth and Doris Ann's in my adolescence).  The echoes of the love in these gatherings ring in my heart even now.

To this day, it's not really Christmas to me unless I listen to Handel's Messiah, to which I was introduced during one of those long-ago Christmas dinners at Mrs. W's.  I remember being about 14 or 15 at the time and being struck by the beauty, power and majesty of this work, so much so that I stopped, sat down in a chair in the living room and listened rapturously to the entire thing.  It remains one of my most cherished holiday memories four decades hence.

(And as I listen to it now while composing this tribute, I must type through the tears, smiling for having been touched by her life but also aching from being touched by her death and facing the first Christmas season I've ever experienced without her....)

"Hello, Walter!" would be how she always greeted me in adult life, with that sweet, twangy and a bit snappy lilt.  I suspect the sound reflected a native southern accent that was mostly gone by her mid- and later adult life.  It was an endearing and ironic notation of our relative transition: me into an adult who no longer wanted to be called by my childhood nickname and her into a loving elder who did her best to respect my choice.  When she slipped occasionally and called me "Wally," we would both laugh because, in truth, I would always be Wally to her, no matter how seriously I tried to be an adult and thereby use my given name, and that was just fine by me.

And I could never bring myself to call her by hers.  In part, this was due to my very proper southern mother's influence, but as an adult it was a reflection of deference and respect: I couldn't address someone whom I loved and esteemed so greatly as if she were a peer.  She was and forever will be above my level in life, which means that I am and have been blessed to have known her.  So forever she has been and will be Mrs. W to me.

I will never forget her smile, which could light up a room.  I will never forget her home, which could light up the lives of all who entered.  And I will never forget her spirit, which inspired us all, and all of which, along with her quiet determination, was required as she battled cancer successfully for years, usually without her losing that endearing and reassuring smile.

She played cards with friends, sang in the choir at church, traveled throughout the world and was a blessing to all who knew her.

But to me, she was the great lady who never forgot my birthday though I, too often, was late in memorializing hers.  After my mother died more than 20 years ago, Mrs. W's card was the one that I could count on receiving before my special day, and some years it was the only card that I would receive (our world having lost to an appreciable extent the habit and courtesy of written birthday greetings).

When I saw her last, at Maria's wedding earlier this year, I was honored to have been given the privilege of driving her to and from the reception.  We chatted freely as in the olden days, as if mid-life weren't kickin' my butt and late life challenging her mightily as well.  And in those golden moments, I could appreciate all that she'd meant to me over the years, a person who was unfailingly in my corner and always had a good word to share with and for me (even as she upbraided me occasionally as Other Mothers are wont and called to do).

As I watched her head to the elevator in her building, as life had taught me over the years, I realized that this might be the last time I would have the privilege of seeing her (though, of course, we always hope otherwise).  And so it was.  This being said, however, I will forever remember that proud lady, who despite the challenges of age and disease, refused to allow me to accompany her all the way to her apartment: she had the grit and determination to meet the challenges of life on her own feisty terms, an aspect of her character that I've always appreciated and admired.

Vera Champion Woodruff wasn't a saint, but she sure felt like one to me on many an occasion and was also proof of God's beneficence to me, to Maria, to her grandchildren Jay and Kristen and to all who had the privilege of knowing her.  Truth be told, the only differences now are that she's no longer in pain and we have been gifted with moments of love and guidance that will last us a lifetime.  And so she lives on in our hearts and spirits, forever joyful, loving and inviting, an eternal spiritual presence to be felt longer than her earthly life.

And though I won't be getting a birthday card this year, I appreciate my Other Mother all the more: she was a gift in my life that I hope to pay forward.  As with my mother, she has taught me that love can last longer than an earthly lifetime and that some of the greatest gifts are the smallest ones, the courtesies and kindnesses usually unexpected but always appreciated.

And now I must end this tribute: as I read it, I see myriad mistakes and realize that it's just too hard to continue, her loss just a little too fresh to enable me to move beyond it.  Disappointing though this may be to me, I can imagine her pardoning me and, instead, thanking me for the effort.  What I know now is that the privilege has always and ever been mine....

Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength,

while loving someone deeply gives you courage.

- Lau Tzu

One of my favorite Bible verses is from St. John’s Gospel, the 34^th verse in its 13^th chapter, in which Jesus says:

I give you a new commandment, that you love one another.

Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.

Vera Champion Woodruff was the very embodiment of this gospel for those of us who will honor her today in Detroit and the many whose lives she touched over the years have been immeasurably blessed by this singular life.  So as we thank God for the blessing of Vera Champion Woodruff, let us promise to love as we were commanded and as she loved us for so many joyful, grace-filled and graceful years….