Shattered
My mom was a truly extraordinary, yet ordinary person. She lived a full, unique, adventurous life that to many, didn’t look like anything too special. She wasn’t one for fussiness or posturing. She didn't need the nicest house or a luxury car. She didn’t care what people thought of how she dressed or where she went to school. She could dress up or own - as comfortable in heels as she was in boots but let’s be honest, she preferred boots.
No, my mom wasn’t out to impress anyone but herself and her family and even then, she didn’t worry too much if you didn’t share or understand her hobbies and passions. She liked what she liked and she didn’t apologize for it.
When I was a child, I liked to sit on her lap and put my head against her chest so I could hear her heart beat and listen to her “inside voice” when she’d talk. It sounded different, like a secret only I could hear. After ski trips in the epic state of Wyoming, she’d let me stick my freezing bare feet on her belly to warm them up. It amazed me every time she let me do it but she’d just smile that megawatt smile and say, “Moms do things other people won’t.”
She was right.
Once, one of her horses ran me under a big oak tree. I had to slide off the side of the saddle to avoid decapitation and ended up with scarred hands forever. She told me I had to get right back on the horse. I didn’t want to and she insisted it was the only way to get over the fear, to be resilient.
She was right.
She permed and frosted my hair in the 80s and told me never to get bangs because they weren’t a good look on me.
She was right.
She made my prom dresses because I always wanted something unique and she was the most talented seamstress. I still have the Christmas stocking she sewed when I was an infant, as do my brothers and sons. She also sewed the warmest mittens with the cutest designs and sold them at a store here in Big Rapids, half the time forgetting to pick up her earnings. She said that when you love doing something you don’t worry about the money.
She was right.
My mom went back to college here in Big Rapids when she was in her 40s. She didn’t care that everyone around her was 20 years younger. She didn’t waste time worrying what others thought, a trait I highly admired. I was “lucky” enough to have classes with her. She whooped me in statistics and we laughed together in yoga. She begged me not to get a sorority tattoo like my classmates, promising to come to my apartment every morning and personally draw whatever I wanted on my ankle with a permanent marker.
“It will look just like the real thing but you won’t regret it forever,” she’d said.
She was right.
She told me not to look back at the past, not to waste time on regret, and to “be like a shark” because they can only move forward.
She was right.
She told me that people could be jealous, petty, mean, envious, and hateful but that you musn’t let them darken your heart - that you should let God take care of the details, and to walk away from a toxic environment.
She was right.
She told me that life was too short not to pursue your passions, to ask God for guidance, and although sometimes she could forget boundaries in the name of honesty, she said, “It’s better to be honest than to carry the weight of a lie.”
She was right.
She told me dogs were better cuddlers than most men and that cheesecake was good for breakfast.
She was right.
Most importantly, she always told me she was not scared of death. She was excited and ready to meet God and that everything would be ok.
I hope she was right.
My mom and I never had any of the tenuous elements to our relationship that you often hear about or see depicted between mothers and daughters in movies. Not once. She had this uncanny ability to never make you feel bad about your decisions - only to learn from them. She didn’t shame us. She was patient and kind and loving but also matter of fact, pragmatic, and no nonsense.
”There is no fair fairy,” she’d often say. And although it used to drive me crazy, she was, once again, right.
Walking into my parents home will never be the same. There is a spark that has gone out, a brightness that has dimmed and will never return. She was often the first on the porch to greet me when I arrived, no matter the time, her huge grin lighting up almost as wide as her eyes. She was always grateful I’d made the trip, always excited just to spend time together, always ready to take me on in Scrabble and frankly, kick my butt.
I’m wearing her rings now, in some poetic, hopeful wish that it will bring her closer to me somehow. I don’t know who I’ll play Scrabble with now. But I do know this—her selflessness, her humor, her appetite for cheesecake, chocolate, and life will always be remembered. I wish I could cook and sew like she could, let things go with grace Iike she did, and live as genuinely as she did. Her lessons will stay with me. And if she were here, I think she’d tell us all to keep moving forward, keep loving fiercely, and keep getting back on the horse—no matter what.
Robin Sue Dilg
8/24/1945 - 1/30/2025
