My Irish grandmother’s name was Minnie Hobling. A fall into the smoldering remains of a rubbish fire as a toddler had left her with such severe burns that her fingers had had to be removed. Amazingly, her stubby hands were adept at knitting and crochet. She made incredible works of art through sheer will and determination. Grandma Hobling would have been over seventy years old the day of my mother’s funeral. All of our friends and relatives were gathered at the Day Funeral Home on Central Avenue.

The room was packed with people. Some were crying softly, some were laughing loudly, many were just talking. The noise sounded deafening to me.

There were so many flowers that the fragrance was overwhelming and I wanted to throw up. To this very day the scent of gladiolas puts me back in that room next to my mother’s casket.

I was eleven years old and I wanted her to get up, to hold me in her arms and comfort me, but she couldn't. She was already with her loving Lord. All that was left to me was her body and cherished memories.

My mother had taught me well in eleven short years. She taught me how to live, and she taught me how to die. She died a slow death of cancer. She had turned yellow from jaundice in her liver, yet until the end, her eyes sparkled with her love for God. Some time before she died, she had promised me that the Lord would be there for me when He took her home. The night she died I stood by her bed. It was 2:30 a.m. From her semi-conscious state, I heard her last words: “JESUS! JESUS!” I knew then that He had come for her. He had taken her to a place in which there is no more pain, no more sorrow, and no more tears.

Several days later, I stood by her lifeless body in the funeral home. I bit my lip hard to hold back tears. My father was drunk, as usual. Grandma said, "Charlene, you have to be strong...that is what your Mom would want you to be, strong!"

I didn't feel strong and I didn’t feel like pretending to be strong. I wanted to fall to the floor and never get up. I asked myself, "Where is this Jesus I learned about in church, the Jesus I sang about, the Jesus who was invited to every meal at our table? The Jesus who was there at my bedtime prayers?”

Grandma Minnie spoke words of comfort as I stood there in the Funeral Home visiting room, "Don't be afraid, Jesus is with you!" Perhaps Jesus was with me, but I wanted someone with arms and skin to hold me and comfort me. I longed to hear that everything would work out well for me and that I would be taken care of. I remember feeling very alone in the world.

Surprisingly though, as people walked by the casket I experienced new sensations. While my friends hugged me and cried softly with me, I felt the love of Jesus. As my school teachers told me that they loved me and would be praying for me, I felt the concern of Jesus. I felt the hands of Jesus as baked goods, casseroles, and homemade foods of all sorts were served at a funeral luncheon, all provided by people who had loved my mother and grandmother. I felt surrounded by Jesus...and His love.

This feeling was warm, tender and welcome, but temporary. The gnawing ache of not having my Mom came back, supplemented by practical worries. Where would I go? My Grandma was too old to take care of me, my Father was a drunk. I was an only child with no aunts or uncles who wanted an eleven year old. Where would I go?

A month or so before my mom died, she had appointed her attorney, a Mr. Clarence Buckenmeyer, as my legal guardian. It had been her wish that I wouldn't live with my father and grandmother. Of course, my father fought that idea and prevailed, so I lived with Grandma Minnie and my Dad until he died from the effects of alcoholism, barely a year later.

Grandma Minnie did her best in that short year to care for me, but she was in such deep grief over mom's death that she had turned inward emotionally. She had never cared for my dad, and it was mutual. It was not a pleasant environment for me, or for either of them.

Mr. Buckenmeyer told Grandma that there were only two choices for where I would go: a foster home or a Convent.