We’ve gathered here today to celebrate the life of Mary Lou Neville, and I do not use the term
“celebrate” lightly. There is mourning…of course. There are tears…of course. And that’s alright,
because they are parts of the process that has been going on since man first came to be on this
earth….the endless cycle as we each pass through, leaving behind what becomes known as our
legacy. As Mary Lou departed this earth, two of her new great-grandchildren, Lily Thoman and
Riley DeMario entered into it. Isn’t it ironic that we shed tears at both ends of life, over both the
coming and going? But they’re different tears: the newborn baby brings them on because of the
miracle of creation….I would venture to say there’s not a person in this room who hasn’t wept
over a newborn baby…and I don’t mean when you were begging them to let you get some sleep!
And then there are the tears of sadness because the person we’re weeping over will be missed.
My mother will be missed because she was a wonderful, kind, gentle, and most amazing lady.
But I used the term “celebration” very deliberately, not simply to put some sort of sugary icing on
an occasion that could be nothing but somber. Several times recently I’ve told my wife that I don’t
want my memorial service to be somber….I want people to remember me with joy….to dwell on
the things about me that made them happy when they were around me. And I sincerely believe
my mother would want that same thing today.
So let’s see….what made me happy when I was around my Mom?
She was always there for me when I needed her. I can’t ever remember her saying “Go away, I
don’t have time for you”. I certainly do remember her grabbing my scrawny 10-year-old shoulder
as I ran by her in the Boynton Beach Pavilion, totally out of control during a family picnic, giddy
with the excitement of the moment. She’d hiss at me, each word separated by a little pause,
“WILL…YOU…SETTLE…DOWN?!!!”. But of course I wouldn’t because my cousin Chuck was
there and we were going to tight-rope walk over a big pipe to an island and fish the shoreline.
She knew I wouldn’t settle down, and I knew she knew, but she had to say it anyway because
she was my mom. There was always great food at those picnics and Mom played no small role
in that because, if I said it like Mom would have said it….
…….she was…A…GREAT…COOK. As my Dad used to say, “We might not live fancy but we
sure eat well. “ Looking back I personally don’t know how she did it. Except for the commercial
chicken pot pies that only occasionally graced our table when she was trying to squeeze the food
budget, Mom laid out a fine spread. I never thought I’d say this but I’m actually kind of thankful
now for those chicken pot pies because they helped us keep the rest of the meals in
perspective—they gave us a measuring stick for just how good a cook she was when she was
turned loose with ingredients. In later years when I’d come back home to visit, she’d make what
might be the all-time understatement in the history of the galaxy: “We’re just going to have a little
pick-up lunch”, she’d say. And then she’d proceed to do some sort of magic with a bunch of what
the elites now call “hold-overs”, but in my book have always been and will always be “leftovers”.
Whatever you call them, Mom would putter around (that’s another term she used) with 6 or 8
small containers of food and when she finally called me to the table there would be a meal a
gourmet restaurant would be proud to serve.
When I was 12 years old my sister Valerie was born. About the time she started eating solid food
I entered into a period of my life where I seemed to always be hungry, and by mealtimes I was
almost mad with hunger. Frequently, while Mom finished cooking supper, I’d be assigned the
task of feeding Valerie in her highchair. It would have been easy had I been merely faced with
spooning warmed-up commercial baby food into her eager little mouth, but no…Mom couldn’t
even leave that alone! She’d fix grits or mashed potatoes and stir in the vegetables and….well….
I don’t know exactly what all she did. All I know is I’d have to sit there and smell the wonderful
smells rising from the concoction, feeding Valerie with a spoon about the size of a dime. I literally
could have eaten it all…all the food out of each of those three sections in that partitioned plastic
bowl ……..in 60 seconds flat! I tried taking a bite of it every now and then but Mom would jump
my case if she caught me: “Bert, I have TOLD you not to eat Valerie’s food. …I’m fixing yours
right now.”
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Oh yes, Mama could cook: fried chicken, strawberry chiffon pie, something we called “Those
Beans” which were pinto beans with grated cheddar cheese and chopped onions on top, baked in
the oven. And her legendary coconut cake with fresh grated coconut between the layers and on
top, and the coconut milk poured over each layer. When I’d ask her if she’d bake one she’d say,
“If you’ll grate the coconut, I’ll fix it”, because using store-bought grated coconut in one of her
cakes was simply not acceptable, and she hated grating it---she said she always hit her knuckles
on the grater. So if I wanted one, it came with a price: I had to hit MY knuckles on the grater!
Momma liked a clean house, too. My older sister Jan and I both remember her method of waking
us up on Saturday mornings, which was her major cleaning time. She’d come in our rooms no
later than 8:30 and vacuum the floors. Nobody, not even a sleep-deprived, growing teenager,
can continue to snooze with a roaring vacuum two feet from his head. It was Mom’s way of
saying, “Hey! Get up! Time’s a’wastin’….there’s work to be done!!” And we’d get up because we
knew we’d lost the duel with Mom and the vacuum cleaner yet again. When she wanted to be
more gentle she’d come into our room and sing, “Everybody get up, it’s time to shiiiiiiine”.
But don’t be deceived into thinking that Mary Lou Neville was some sort of homemaker “softylady”. She was tough as nails. She was “load-Jan-and-me-and-two-more-passengers-into-anOldsmobile-88-and-head-off-across-the-country-from-Florida-to-San-Fancisco-to-board-a-ship-toOkinawa” tough. She was “endure-two-interminable-weeks-at-sea-on-a-converted-Navaldestroyer-to-get-to-Okinawa” tough. And she was “set-up-and-run-two-households-in-differentforeign-countries-like-it-was-no-big-deal” tough. If you combined that Olds 88 with one of those
foreign countries..Germany..you got something that legends are made of: Mom driving that big
car through the narrow, cobblestone streets of little German villages with the precision of a
surgeon. When my Aunt Val and my grandmother came over to visit, it was all they could talk
about. I was too young to realize the skill-level Mom had attained, but it must have been
something. Oh yes, Mom was tough. I can easily imagine this scene: she, Jan and I are hiking
on a mountain. Jan falls down and breaks her leg. Mom says to Jan, “Well now….we’ll just have
to get a couple of small tree limbs and make a splint for your leg, and then we’ll get some more
limbs and make a litter and we’ll just get you down off this mountain and take you to a
doctor…..are you ready? O.k., then…everybody get up, it’s time to shine!” Mom could have
easily been one of those women in a wagon heading west during the Gold Rush…..she’d have fit
right in…..and God help the Indian who even thought about harming her brood of chicks!
At a time when most normal women would have folded their arms across their chest and
announced, “O.k. I’ve done my duty. I’ve raised three kids and gotten them out of the house and
I’ve supported my husband during his military career. Now I’m going to kick back and relax….I’ve
earned it”, Mom did something else. She’d held inside her all those years an artistic talent, and
no one, probably not even Mom herself, understood it’s magnitude. In today’s culture she most
likely would have begun her pursuit of art in her early twenties. But it wasn’t done in her day and
she was much too focused on supporting her family to be distracted. Who knows what dreams
she dreamt, but she obviously didn’t say to herself, “Well, I can’t do anything artistic right now so
I’ll just give up the idea forever”. No way. She just found a few small tree limbs and made a
splint and found some more limbs and made a litter and got down off that mountain.
I don’t want to extend this service by an additional hour to talk about all of Mom’s exploits as a
painter and sculptress. I believe most of you in this room know about them. If you don’t know, all
you’d have to do is walk into her and Dad’s house and you’d begin to get a grasp. On
Wednesday night, Mom wrote on her tablet to me that she wanted me to see her latest sculpture
in her studio: “On stand”, she wrote. “You want me to see the sculpture on a stand in your
studio?”, I asked her. She nodded. “Have I seen this one yet?”, I asked her. She shook her
head: no, I hadn’t seen it. Even in the last days, the last hours of her life on this earth, Mom was
thinking about her passion….her art.
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I once read an obviously fabricated anecdote about the famous composer, Wolfgang Amadeus
Mozart. As the story goes, he was such a musical genius that he could compose songs in his
head faster than he could write them down. As the years passed, the backlog in his head got
larger and larger until shortly before his death he was heard singing the lyrics to “Bess, You Is My
Woman, Now”.
I can’t help but wonder what kind of artistic backlog was in Mom’s head. My guess is that if she’d
lived to be 150 years old and had been physically capable, she’d have just kept churning out
sculptures that would have had us shaking our heads. That’s how most of us in the family
reacted to her art…we just shook our heads and marveled at the wonderful talent of this
wonderful woman. But we’ve been blessed immeasurably by what she’s left behind. I once read
that most details about a person’s life are forgotten by the third generation. In that scenario, by
the time Ryley and Lily became adults, they’d know very little about their great-grandmother Mary
Lou Neville. But that postulate will not work with my mother. Who knows how many generations
will keep inheriting her art and displaying it their homes. I can easily imagine the following
conversation taking place: “That is such an interesting painting (or sculpture, or
whatever)…where did you get it?”. “Oh, you won’t believe this…my great-great-great
grandmother did that back in 1991. Isn’t it beautiful? Let me tell you about her.” I don’t think
that’s far-fetched at all.
One more story about her art and then I’ll move on. All newly married couples face difficult
decisions early in their marriages. Deb’s and mine came before we were even married when
Mom announced to us, “Dad and I want you two to have any piece of art you’d like from our
house as your wedding present”. At that time Dad wasn’t doing stained glass or our decision
would have been even more difficult than it was. Suffice it to say it was not easy. Looking back,
Deb and I could have ended any possibility of our getting married right then with a colossal
argument over what to take, but we miraculously settled on the same thing: a painting, done with
acrylic but very water color in appearance, called “Those Smoky, Smoky Mountains”. It’s a scene
you might imagine you’d see if you were standing on a high place overlooking the Smoky
Mountains, as the very first, tiny hint of light from a sunrise began to chase away the shadows.
We hung it in our house in San Antonio, and six years ago when we built our dream home, we
designed a recessed area over the fireplace to hang a picture. I’m embarrassed to say we didn’t
have any particular picture in mind when we designed it, but when we moved in and began
hanging artwork we thought maybe “Those Smoky, Smoky Mountains” would fit in the spot.
Before I held it up to see, we both realized the blues of the mountains probably wouldn’t go with
our Hunter Green walls, so we were a little discouraged right off. When I put the painting in the
spot not only did it fit like we’d designed the house around it, but the green walls picked up a
green in the painting that we didn’t even know was there. I took it down and the mountains were
blue. I put it back and the mountains had a greenish hue. We were both stunned. If we had
commissioned Mom to paint a painting for that opening it couldn’t have been more perfect. It
hangs there today and will stay there as long as we live in that house, along with the sculptures
Mom has given us and the beautiful stained glass window my Dad made that’s over our front
door. Mom was a lot like that painting. There were things about her that were obvious, in-yourface…..and then there were things about her as subtle as the green in those mountains.
There are perhaps many questions on our hearts today. How do we answer the big questions in
life? “God, Are you truly there for me even when the lights go out? Can I really trust you? Why
do we have to die?
Tami read from Psalm 84. I find there is no book, which better portrays the peaks of joy, or the
depths of sorrow we face, than the book of Psalms. David, the author experienced times of great
darkness, and loneliness. Reading from verse 5: “Blessed is the man whose strength is in you,
whose heart is set on pilgrimage. As they pass through the Valley of Baca.”
Can you see the weary pilgrim in the desert? Mouth parched, body dehydrated, stomach aching,
eyes blind from the sun. Realizing that if he doesn’t get help soon, he’ll die. The Valley of Baca
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was such a place – it was called a place of weeping; it was called a place of arid desolation. We
don’t know its exact location, but some on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem had to pass through it.
Every one of us is on a pilgrimage in this life.
And Baca could well describe our pilgrimage over the past several weeks. It started on track . . .
And then . . .things changed forever as Mom just couldn’t seem to fight her way back. She had
no more strength to fight, and just stopped taking her medicine.
“Blessed is the man whose strength is in you, whose heart is set on pilgrimage. As they pass
through the Valley of Baca.” How can the Bible say that?
Solomon, the wisest man that ever lived explains how today can be a blessing: (Ecclesiastes 7:2)
“It is better to go to the house of mourning than to go to the house of feasting, for that is the end
of all men; and the living will take it to heart.” It is a blessing because we’re forced to look in the
face of man’s oldest enemy - death - and see our own reflection. One day, it will be my turn. One
day it will be your turn. Death is one of life’s certainties. You can ignore it; you can pretend it
won’t happen to you. But it will.
I want for us to consider this word death for a moment. Our life is like a tapestry. When seen
from its underside, all you see is snarls, knots and frays. But God is able to see the tapestry from
both sides. He wove every snarl, knot and fray. And each one is necessary to create the
beautiful work of art, woven by Himself, the Master Artist. There is coming a day when those of
us who know Him will see the topside of the tapestry. And this day…..today….right now…will be
part of its beauty.
Paul said in Philippians 1: To live is Christ, and to die is gain…I am pressed between the two,
having a desire to depart and to be with Christ, which far better. Nevertheless to remain the flesh
is more needful for you.
This earth is not our home. We’re all living in a rented room on borrowed time. On this earth our
bodies are susceptible to disease, our minds constantly under attack. We are tempted and worn
down. It is our hope and our trust that’s not true anymore for mother. She’s no longer in pain.
She’s free of that old body. She’s in the world for which God made her, in a world where she
feels completely at home. She has 20/20 vision and a pallet of colors to paint with that you and I
cannot imagine. Having experienced heaven, she could never again be satisfied with less.
Blessed is the man as he passes through the valley of Baca. Perhaps a story will help us
understand how this can be a blessing: Two twins were in their mother’s womb. Swimming
around in their warm home, they could imagine no finer place. It was temperature-controlled,
comfortably snug, and the room service food was made to order! But after about nine months, an
angel spoke to them, “OK kiddos, it’s time to be born!” “Born?” one replied. “What’s born?”
“Why, being born is when you come out of there and enjoy the wonderful world God has made.”
“World?” the other twin said. “What’s a world?”
“Why, the world is a marvelous place full of trees and mountains, streams and oceans. It’s filled
with beautiful colors and fantastic sight,” the patient angel replied. “Mountains?” one twin asked.
“Streams?” the other chimed in. After a quick consultation they told the angel, “We’ve never seen
any of these things. We’ll just stick with what we’ve got. We’re family here. We like it here just
fine. We’ll pass on the ‘born” thing, but thanks just the same.”
“Look” the angel said firmly, “This is not an option. You can’t stay in there. You have to be born.”
“We have to?” they whined. “Will it hurt?” “Yes, I’m afraid so, and you’ll have to go through a
dark passage, but I promise you’ll be glad when it’s over.”
“Oh noooo. We’re not going” they stubbornly replied. “No choice guys. It’s time!” And the
process began. They cried and fought the whole way into the world, but with their first breath of
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air and their first taste of mother’s milk, they said, “Hey, this place is great. Why didn’t you tell us
it was like this?” “I tried,” the tired angel said, “but you wouldn’t listen.”
Years later, the angel came to the twins again. “Ok, fellas, it’s time to die.” “Die?” they said.
“What’s dying?” “Oh, you’ll go to a wonderful place with streets of pure gold, and trees that grow
many different kinds of fruit, and walls of precious gem stones, and cherubim and archangels of
such beauty, and peace and joy like you’ve never known here, and you’ll see family and friends
who’ve gone on before, and Jesus Christ Himself will be there.”
“I haven’t ever seen an archangel, or a cherubim!” one snapped. “Yeah, we like it here on earth,”
the second agreed. “There are mountains and streams and oceans and trees. And we’ve got
family here. This is our home. We’re happy here. We’ll pass on this death thing, but thanks
anyway.”
“Guys, you don’t have a choice. It’s your appointed time.” And though they begged and pleaded
and tried to hang on, they died and went to be with the Lord. And after a moment, which was an
eternity, in the presence of God and all His glory, they said the angel, “Hey, why didn’t you tell us
it was this wonderful?” “I tried,” the angel said smiling, “but you wouldn’t listen.”
Even in this time of weeping, in this valley of Baca, there is blessing:
 When all is going well we’re often too busy to get close to Him and experience His fullness.
At times like this we turn to Him for help and find a depth of His presence which carries us
through the deepest sorrow.

This is an opportunity to get our lives in order. Earth is in a way heaven’s womb, God’s
nursery. Our lives continue from the old realm to the new. What was done on earth has great
bearing on life after death.
Some of us memorized John 3:16 as children: “God so loved the world that He gave His one and
only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.” Have you believed
in Him? We are ready for heaven not because we do the best we can; not because we attend
church, or were confirmed, or were baptized. Those things are all good, but they do not make us
ready for heaven.
The Bible says: “God is righteous in all His ways and holy in all his work. He cannot behold evil
and cannot look upon iniquity.” When Adam sinned, his sin passed on to all of us, including
mother, including you, including me. We inherited our sinfulness. The Bible says “all of us have
sinned and fall short of the glory of God.” A speaker for Promisekeepers put it this way: We’re
not sinners because we sin; we sin because we’re sinners! The Bible says “And it is appointed
unto men once to die, but after this the judgment.” “Prepare to meet your God.” Are you
prepared? As you face the spectre of your own mortality today, know that you can be prepared.
But you must receive His gift. John 1 says “As many as received Him to them He gave the power
to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on His name.”
Jesus was crucified, he was buried, and put in a tomb. But remember? He said: “I am the
resurrection and the life. He that believes in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and
whoever lives and believes in me shall never die
You ask, “What do I have to do?” Just tell Jesus, “I believe in You, I receive You as my Savior. I
receive Your gift of eternal life.” “It’s by grace you are saved, through faith; It’s not of yourself; It’s
a gift of God, so that no man can boast.”
I began this message with a picture of one on a pilgrimage through a place of desolation, a place
of weeping; the valley of Baca. “Blessed is the man whose strength is in you, as they pass
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through the valley of Baca, they make it a spring; the rain also covers it with pools. They go from
strength to strength; Every one of them appears before God in Zion.”
God is allowing us, on our pilgrimage to Him, to travel through this time of desolation, of sorrow,
of mourning, of loss. But with it He brings the rains of spiritual refreshing. His grace will be
sufficient, as it is made perfect in your weakness, and will grant you to go from strength to
strength. And His grace will be experienced in ways that you could not have known before.
Pray with me.
Heavenly Father, we mourn the loss of my mother. There are no words that can bring her back to
us. But we pray for comfort from you, and a peace that passes all understanding, that this we
would sense underneath us your everlasting arms, and know your wonderful grace more than
ever before.
We also pray in accordance with Your Word, that You would work this together for good as only
You can do. And may Your Holy Spirit continue to use Your Word which we have shared here
today in our hearts, that we might experience the wonders of knowing You in a personal way.
This we pray in Jesus Name, Amen.
I
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