In memory of a life well-lived
courtesy photo
Linda Sappington, right, shares a moments with mom Lucille Marie Ahlberg in 2010.
Hey savvy news reader! Thanks for choosing local.
You are now reading
1 of 3 free articles.
I was just 21 when my dad passed, suddenly, from an apparent heart attack.
Early that same year, my mother spent four weeks in intensive care, fighting a stubborn pneumonia that took her life. Two minutes later, she came back to the living and felt a peace she had never before experienced.
She recalled seeing radiant light and an angel with wings that skirted the ground who told her it wasn’t her time to go. She had work left to do.
Two months later, she buried her father.
Six months later, she buried my father.
Mom was just 52 years old. She never remarried, never dated, never wanted more than a warm bear hug from another male.
And here’s why: my parents loved, really loved, each other. It was the kind of love that began as friendship and lasted through weight gain, wrinkles, and bereavement.
As a young girl, watching their faithful love for each other, I felt safe, accepted and cherished.
It was the late 1960s when my mom would don a pretty dress, spiky pumps and Estee Lauder perfume for the weekly date with Dad. I remember marveling at her strong calves attached to dainty ankles — muscles, she said, from years of lifting patients and charging through hospitals corridors. She chose to work as a night shift nurse so she’d be at home when we were at school, in case of emergencies. Sleepily arriving home just before we walked to school, with childish selfishness we’d beg her for a ride, beg her for a stop at DK’s donut shop. Occasionally she would give in. Then she would return home and sleep throughout the day. We’d sneak into her room after school and ask permission to go to a friend’s house, and any mumble she made, we would interpret as a “yes.”
Mom would rise to cook supper and after saying a Swedish prayer of blessing, our family shared the meal together. About 10 p.m. she’d prepare for work, dress in her white uniform, white nylons and white cardigan, sturdy white shoes and take a 30-minute snooze before dad walked her to the car and kissed her goodbye. With her stiff white nurses cap atop her head, mom drove off into the night toward St. Jude Hospital.
It was just her routine, but I saw a woman who sacrificed and worked hard for her family.
Mom signaled the start of each Christmas season by hanging a festive arch of shiny red ornaments above the kitchen counter. She enjoyed the art of carefully wrapping presents, and placing them under the fresh cut Christmas tree days and weeks before we could open them. Our imaginations ran wild as we scanned the tags for our own names, building sweet anticipation of the day we could tear into the gifts. Four ceramic letters spelled “NOEL” atop the shelf, and she patiently replaced the order each time one of us rearranged it to say “LEON.” There were always advent calendars, Bible stories, carols telling the birth of Jesus, friends invited for coffee cake and holidays spent with aunts, uncles and cousins.
These were just her traditions, but I saw a woman who understood the importance of family, and who knew how to celebrate.
One Christmas I eagerly opened a wooden marionette Dutch girl from the Sears Christmas catalog. I actually got something I circled! How many times did those strings become a tangled mess? I’d try to sort through them, but quickly give up. In my childish impatience, I begged her to cut the strings off and let me have a floppy doll; instead, quietly and skillfully she worked her fingers through the maze of colored strings, over and over without complaining, until my puppet again was free at last.
She was just doing what a mom does, but in those moments I learned patience and perseverance.
On warm summer days she sat at the edge of the Brea Plunge as we dove off the high dive or sat on a towel at Corona Del Mar beach, while my siblings and I body surfed the waves or hiked through the caves. I could never coax her into the water. She knew we loved to swim, but she wanted nothing to do with water. She wouldn’t even get her head wet in the shower, preferring to visit the beauty parlor weekly. Yet she’d take us to the beach or pool time and again, and I saw selflessness in action.
Eventually my own children were born. Mom snuck into the delivery room, telling the staff, “It’s ok, I’m a nurse,” so she could watch her first granddaughter enter the world. Her highly anticipated visits could turn the crabbiest of toddlers into perfect jewels. The kids would find a little spray of her perfume on their pillows after she left, a small reminder that she had been there. Each summer she would invite each child to spend a week alone with her, and she lavished her grandchildren with gifts and adventures and attention. She also prayed daily for each of her children and grandkids. Her Bible overflowed with prayer lists.
Through her actions, I learned unconditional love.
After my dad passed, mom visited numerous countries on several continents, and returned with fascinating stories and photographs. She was a trooper, strong and adventurous and often a bit sassy. Friends and family will clearly remember all the cards and gifts she showered on those she loved.
Yes, in 1979 God still had 34 more years of work for her to do.
But to me, her work looked a lot like love.
My mom’s life taught me that unconditional, sacrificial love isn’t possible without the love of Christ in us. She lived it by loving me all the times I chose to stumble off the narrow path God had prepared for me. She prayed believing God’s Word was true, trusting in the promise that His kindness leads to repentance. She and my dad relentlessly taught us about the Jesus they loved — until I finally understood Christ’s sacrifice and knew His love intimately and personally.
Mom didn’t preach much, but she loved much — extravagantly and selflessly.
Lucille Marie Ahlberg lovingly held me when I entered the world, and on Thursday, March 14, I had the privilege of holding her while she slipped away into eternity.
I aspire to continue this legacy of love with my own family, and realize how very blessed I am to have shared my life with a mom who lived what she believed until the very last day of her life.
