I gave this eulogy at my mom's funeral mass, July 30, 2014, at St. Gertrude's Church in Chicago
Hi everyone,
Thanks for being here today to remember my mom; to celebrate her. To say goodbye to her.
We’re so grateful that people dear to my mom have come here from the places dear to my mom’s heart—Syracuse; Buffalo; Minneapolis and St. Paul; the Carmel/Monterey area of California. And of course Chicago—the place where she felt most at home.
As people have sent condolence notes in the past several days, a common theme has been remembering my mom’s smile. Her beaming, sweet smile. And her laughter. My mom was quick to laugh, and it could become this whooping thing—especially when she told stories about her sister Monica getting into trouble; and my mom staying on the right side of the law in the Tobin household.
People also talk about how my mom always saw the best in people.
I think there’s a simple explanation for all her smiling and laughing and seeing people in a positive light.
My mom saw everyone as a child of God. Including herself.
That perspective has much to do with her mom. Anne Tobin, or Nanny to the wider Tobin family. You can’t really talk about any Tobin clan member without talking about Nanny.
Nanny was all about “Joy” with an exclamation point. It’s the word she put in all her letters. Like, “Martha, Chip and the kids came for Thanksgiving and we had chocolate cream pie. Joy!” Nanny also was all about service. To the poor and the old and the sick.
I think you could look at my mom’s life as taking Nanny’s Joyful service and amplifying it. Bringing it to the institution of Catholic education—such that she ultimately touched tens of thousands of children and their families and communities.
As a first grade teacher, as a principal, and ultimately as associate superintendent in Chicago Catholic Schools and superintendent of the St. Paul and Minnesota Catholic Schools, my mom brought it. These were tough jobs. Requiring patience, smarts and perseverance. My mom brought all those qualities, along with kindness. She cared about and listened closely to everyone from kindergarteners to veteran teachers, parents and bishops. Made each feel special.
But she also had high standards. She didn’t cave to pleading or pressure. In fact, the high standards came from the same place as the kindness—she was a steward of minds of souls.
This fierce kindness had a remarkable effect. It allowed her to coax first graders to read, to raise the performance of teachers, to navigate the tricky waters of school consolidation.
One family with something like 7 kids had had my mom as a first grade teacher for a bunch of them when she said she was leaving to become principal at Corpus Christi school in Colorado Springs. The mother and father were distraught—they had a few more kids for mom to teach! They offered to single-handedly pay more than what she’d be making at the new school to keep her in first grade.
But it wasn’t about the money for my mom. It was about the people—and teachers and colleagues understood this. Dozens of them over the years told my mom she was the best boss they ever had.
Just yesterday, I asked my dad why my mom first decided to become a principle. Because she’d never talked about it. Or about setting her sights on a superintendent role. She didn’t seem to have an ambitious bone in her body. Didn’t seem to care when the rest of us in the family would bask in the way she had become what we called a “power person.” My dad said it had to do with her father, my Grandpa Tobin, and his philosophy: if you can do something well, do it. In other words: serve.
So building on her parent’s wisdom and guidance, my mom served. With Joy. Exclamation point.
And that’s what she was like at home, too. Even as she progressed through an ever more demanding career, she was a rock as a mother. She wasn’t the kind of mom who made cookies—she was more the kind who ate them. But she made sure we had them. And enough for all the kids in the neighborhood. Plus the warmth to make everyone feel welcome—as we played basketball and street hockey and dungeons and dragons. Our neighbor Scott “Otter” Waggoner wrote to say my mom was like a second mom to him. My dear friend Paul Rudnick says we basically adopted him when his family struggled when we were in middle school.
My mom had the same high standards for our behavior as she did for her students and later her teachers. But she never really had to punish us much. Kirk, Katie and I just didn’t want to get in trouble much—my gosh, we’d be letting her down. This Saint of a mother. I could maybe complain that she was such a good person that my brother and sister and I never got to have a decent rebellious period.
When I think of my mother’s love, I think of this one time from my early teens. The guys were all going golfing on our municipal golf course, and I somehow got lost in the phone tree planning. They went without me. I was sad and hurt, so my mom offered to drive me to the course. Miraculously, we found the gang on the 3rd hole, and I said: “I’ll jump the fence with my clubs and join you guys.”
But Billy Cleary, a great guy generally, broke my heart that day. He said, “We’ve already got a foursome. Go back to the first tee.” In other words, join any old strangers. Thanks, Billy.
Mom and I drove home. And I think I shed a tear or two. But my tears were nothing compared to my mom’s – she sobbed for me, with me. Billy broke her heart that day too. She empathized, loved that deeply.
Sometimes I think she loved us too much. Sacrificed more than is healthy. Kirk just told me that it was only when we were in college that mom told him she didn’t like pizza. Or melted cheese in most forms. You’re talking about a family that probably had pizza once a week. Then I asked my dad whether he made her omelettes without cheese—“omelettes need cheese” he responded. But he added that she came to like a minimal amount of cheese. Their cheese compromise, I guess.
On the subject of recipes, I wanted to think about my mom’s recipe for happiness. Because I think she was truly happy. Happiness is big these days. It’s a movement/an industry even. But I think my mom was ahead of the curve in knowing how to get there. And here’s what I think her seven-part, secret formula included.
I mentioned service. I’ve mentioned family and friends. I mentioned faith—and here I would say that besides going to church regularly, mom had her prayer list. Here in Chicago, she and my dad would walk along Lake Michigan in the morning, and stop at a bench for prayers. Her list of prayers was carefully prioritized. The family member or friend in most trouble went at the top. Kirk says he occasionally prompted recalibrations himself, “feeling good mom—lower me down; or having some problems, can you raise me up a little higher?”
By the way, my dad was either much more efficient or somewhat less holy. While my mom prayed away for 4 or 5 minutes, his prayers lasted about 30 seconds.
But my dad is the next ingredient to my mom’s happiness. They were married for 47 years. They epitomized all the “in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad” stuff. My dad cared for her when she had breast cancer. He was her supportive partner throughout her career—doing her PowerPoints, fixing her computer. She did the same for him—supporting him in his career. And they loved their life together—hanging out in piano bars, throwing dinner parties, spending time with family and friends, taking those walks along Lake Michigan.
Many of you know—and my father admits—he can be a difficult personality at times. Shall we say a bit overbearing. But my mother saw mainly his wonderful qualities—considered him the prickly but noble Yul Brenner in the King and I. Wanted to dance with him as long as she could.
And dance is another piece of my mom’s puzzle. Ingredient number five is that my mom was a mover. Not a marathoner or yoga maven or golfer. But she loved to move, to dance to Motown and Jazz and I think she was even grooving to Daft Punk at Carmel and Keller’s wedding last summer. Her walks and her dancing and her hugs were about the joy of the human body in motion.
But she also understood the importance of rest. Ingredient number 6 is the way my mom took it easy. Removed herself even from the world and pressures around her. When we were kids this often took the form of Harlequin romances. This might sound crazy for someone with the intellect needed to run a 30,000-student school district and who could hold forth on all manner of public debates. But my mom loved trashy romance novels. We had stacks of them in our closets. Later, she could be found spending significant amounts of time in front of Entertainment Tonight.
But I think all this low-brow escaping reflected a high level of wisdom. About the need to recharge. To unplug. There’s a wellness and wellbeing movement these days as people feel their lives are too packed. My mom had the wellbeing thing down ages ago. Especially after she went through chemo 20 years ago with breast cancer, she knew she had to pace herself. Knew, in a way, how to make her sweetness sustainable.
That also had something to do with actually eating plenty of sweets. Chocolate chip cookies with lots of milk. Half moons. Ice cream.
She loved the sweetness of life, and she saw it all around her. This is the final ingredient. A positive outlook. Literally, eyes open to wonder and light. And acting as a mirror to show others all the beauty and joy around them. That’s what her bright-eyed smile did for us throughout her life.
Did even the night before she died. People at Mike and Dorothea’s party Saturday said she was beaming. And she was happy. Those ingredients were all mixing together. Relaxing, finally, having retired from a lifetime of service. Moving to music. With dear family and friends. With my dad. Appreciating the joy all around her.
And then faith. Because I believe my mom’s sudden death at perhaps the highest point in her life was a kind of gift from God. As hard as it is for all of us who now miss her, especially my dad, there is something perfect in the way she died. Without pain. Without a drawn-out decline that would have burdened those she loved. Having finished a life of good works. Having raised all her children to good places.
Martha Frances Frauenheim died in the arms of her beloved husband Ed Frauenheim. At St. Frances hospital. Right at the feast of St. Martha—who prompted Jesus to say “I am the Resurrection and the Life. He who believes in me will live a new life.”
My mom used to say—usually over a chocolate chip cookie—“It’s like dying and going to heaven.” Mom, I trust you are there. As your friend Elena White put it, “If Marty isn’t in heaven, the rest of us are big trouble.”
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