Audrey Roy: A Tribute To Mom

The windows in our tiny home rattled as a Louisiana thunderstorm rumbled in the evening sky.  A flash of lighting lit up the faces of Mom and her four children clutching her night gown.  Huddled together in a bedroom, we felt the world might end.  Our fears rose as the storm boiled.

My Dad was driving home in the rainstorm to be with us after a week on the road.  He was the rock, a World War II veteran who stood tall in any disaster.  Mom was his opposite.  Yet on that evening she found strength in prayer.  As she began to pray in the darkened room, her voice soothed our distress.

Our small sounds soon joined hers. We prayed into the night until finally Dad arrived safely.  It was my first experience with the meaning of faith.  It wasn't some religious fantasy.  There was a God who listened, who cared, and answered prayers.  The lesson is embroidered on my heart.

That is one of my most vivid memories of Mom, Audrey Roy.  It happened when I was about six years old, almost 66 years ago.  But I have never, ever forgotten it.  Audrey passed away last week at the age of 96.  Her life was defined by her faith, her unconditional love for her children and my Dad.

Audrey's defining role as mother began in 1946 with the birth of twins.  Their names were Dean and Drew.  We were premature infants born in an era ill equipped technologically to deal with the medical consequences. Tragedy struck three days after our birth.  Dean passed away.

That episode affected Mom her entire life.  She recalled the hospital nurse had roused her out of a deep sleep to share the sad news.  From that day on, whenever she was startled out of a sound sleep, her first thought was a report of another child's death.  It was a secret cross she carried. 

By the time she was 40, Mom had seven children to raise.  She cooked three meals a day, cleaned the dishes, washed and ironed our clothes, supervised baths and always had a baby in her tender arms.  Mom seldom raised her voice, laughed often and treasured each moment with her children.

Despite the daily demands, she never groused or even looked exhausted.  Looking back, I realize I took her dedication for granted.  She had no life outside her kids.  Her entertainment was watching us grow and taking care of our every need.  I have no idea how she did it.

During our youth, the family moved a lot as Dad's career blossomed.  From Louisiana we packed off to two cities in Mississippi and then two towns in Texas.  Each address change created new headaches for Mom who had to find doctors and schools to accommodate her growing family. 

By today's feminist standards, she would be viewed as an unfulfilled women.  But Mom's achievements are beyond measure.  She was the first one to comfort when something hurt.  Or when there was a problem.  Or when things were rough at school.  We were always on her Worry List.

As we began to leave home, Mom shed a few tears, prayed harder and found her passion.  The woman loved playing Bingo. Dad once joked she was the only one he knew who played Bingo for 50 years and never won a game.  That was an exaggeration.  But her wins were few.  Her joys many.

In 2010, Mom moved again at the age of 90 after 47 years in El Campo, Texas.  It had to be traumatic at her age, but she never flinched. She settled in a senior living complex in San Antonio with Dad.  About a week later Dad passed away. His death left her alone for the first time in 67 years.

No one would have blamed Mom for falling apart.  Instead she was determined to carry on.  She had grand kids to cuddle and grown kids to fuss over.  A social worker called her once and inquired if she needed grief counseling.  Mom appeared confused.  "What for?" she inquired.  "I'm fine."

Mom embraced her new lifestyle, making new friends and trying new things.  She began exercise class at age 90, enjoyed watching the NBA Spurs on television and playing games of chance at her senior facility.  It was a humble life but she was a woman of simple tastes.

Well, except when it came to her hair.  Mom had the most beautiful coiffured gray hair I have ever seen.  She treated her hair as a national treasure.  She had a standing weekly hair appointment at the beauty parlor. She fretted over her hair on a windy day.  There was never a strand out of place.

In her final days in a hospital, a nurse appeared to evaluate her mental faculties. She asked Mom a stream of questions, including what year it was; where she lived; did she know where she was right now.  Mom shook her head "no" to each inquiry.  A frown creased the nurse's face.

Finally, my sister Charlene nudged the nurse.  "Ask her when her next hair appointment is," she grinned.  After the nurse posed the question, Mom answered: "I have a hair appointment on Wednesday and then the following Thursday I am getting a perm."  It was classic Mom.

I am going to miss her terribly.  But the lessons she taught me about faith and her examples of humility and service to others will last all my days.  She may be gone but she lives in the hearts of everyone who knew her, especially the children she doted on her entire life.