If there could ever be such a thing as a happy funeral, I would propose that—perhaps—this would be it. I can’t imagine a richer, fuller, more beautiful life than Grandmother’s, or a more peaceful death. I know that you share my thankfulness that the end of her life was so perfectly fitting for a life so well lived, and the sweet sadness that we all share today is only that we wish she could be here to enjoy her magnificent clan all together in one place.
During these past months, it has been especially hard, for me, to live so far away, as it has been harder than ever to stay in touch with Grandmother. For a while now, I’ve been wanting to write her a letter to explain how often I think of her and how, in some mystery of genetics, lifeblood, karma, or just plain old cooking-for-a-big-family, I can feel her sweet presence inside me and alongside me as I go about my daily work of taking care of a few of her great-grandchildren.
I didn’t write that letter yet. And now I can no longer mail it to her from Wisconsin, which is why I asked Uncle Benno if he’d be willing to let me share some of my love for her here today. I know that we’ve all been reflecting during the past week about our own cherished memories of “Grandmother Anderson,” as I always knew her, or “Great-grandma,” or “Bertha,” or “Mrs. Anderson,” or even “Mom.” I am thankful for today because it gives us a chance to take a time-out from the busyness of life and just to savor our memories of her. Her love of sewing, cooking, gardening, church-going, and, of course, crossword-puzzling and bridge-playing all come to mind.
And it doesn’t take long for those memories to involve my taste buds. Tangerines from the tree out in front of the house on Estate Lane, when I was a little, little girl. At that same house, sitting up on a stool in her vast and wonderful kitchen, making cookies. Peeling shrimp, cracking oysters, gumbo, German food, feasts of unimaginable creativity, variety--and, of course, volume--for every holiday you can imagine. Snickerdoodles, of course—her special treat for Keith each time we visited. A special stew that she made when I brought my then-newlywed husband by for a visit. The proud, loving look in her eyes when my then-toddler son William enthusiastically downed about four filets of fried flounder—“Oh, he eats just like an Anderson,” she said, of course.
There’s something to that “Anderson” thing, and it goes way beyond good-food-and-lots-of-it. It’s also the Longhorns, and the Texas Gulf Coast, and fiery, high-achieving independence, and good hard work, and the Longhorns, and strong integrity, and community service, and other football, too (if the Longhorns aren’t playing), and goofy, oddball humor, and tough competition, and taking care of our own—and good food and lots of it. (While watching the Longhorns.) And I must say that being an Anderson wouldn’t mean much without Grandmother having been in the middle of it all, throughout her incredible near-century of life. She and Grandpa Doc raised up what always seemed to me to be a miraculously large—and larger-than-life—family of men who are all now Grandpas themselves, with so much to be proud about.
In the end, what I want most in life is to end my life surrounded by glorious generations of family and the warmth of long-loved friends, having explored and exhausted every possible talent and interest that God gave me along the way, and leaving the only legacy that truly is eternal—US.
That’s why this must be the happiest funeral ever. We’re sad to miss dear Grandmother, but I suspect that she’s happier than ever—reunited in heaven with those beloved souls who belong with her, and with us, but who aren’t here today.
In closing, I want to share a secret with you. I hope Grandmother won’t mind my sharing this, but some years ago when I was working on a baby book, I needed to know her middle name to fill out my little William’s family tree. Her real, maiden middle name, because I’d always known her as “Bertha Du Menil Anderson” which was, of course, her married name. At first she wouldn’t tell. She said she very much disliked her middle name, and never told it to anyone. Then she seemed to reconsider, and shared that her original middle name was “Thekla,” t-h-e-k-l-a. I assumed it was an old-fashioned German name, and didn’t quite understand her dislike of it, but that was about it.
Until recently when, while working on some research about Catholic Saints, I came across a little-known ‘Saint Thekla,’ who was probably the original, way-back, pre-Reformation-Germany source of that middle name. And it turns out that Saint Thekla, born in A.D. 61, was quite remarkable—one of the very first Christians to face the Romans’ lions, in fact, and a contemporary and a disciple of St. Paul himself. As tradition has it, miraculous intervention saved Thekla from the lions, however, and her passion for the Truth and her long life of devotion to the Gospel concluded, as I read in one account, when she “peacefully fell asleep at the age of 90.”
No doubt that Bertha Thekla Du Menil Anderson--our beloved Grandmother, Aunt, Sister, In-Law, Friend, and Mom—had her vibrant namesake St. Thekla cheering for her from heaven throughout her own 98 years of life.
And, no doubt, Bertha herself is cheering for all of us, right now.
Bertha Thekla Du Menil Anderson 3/5/1912 – 1/29/2010
