Homily
–
on the occasion of a Memorial Service for my Mother, Jean Ackerman Thyren, held in The First Presbyterian Church at Caldwell, NJ, on May 30, 2026.
Scripture Readings preceding the Homily were Proverbs 3. 1-8; Proverbs 6. 16-19; Romans 12. 9-18, and Romans 8. 31-39
Over the last two decades my sister and I, along with our spouses, have downsized my mother’s world several times. Emptying the beloved bungalow on Thrumont Road was, at times, a three-generation affair spread over four or five months. Decisions, decisions, decisions. What would fit into her new digs in Apartment 218 at Cranes Mill? Who would like to have a piece of furniture, a picture, or a cherished knick-knack? Which items could we donate to the Vietnam Vets or another organization? And what would she allow us to pile at the curb for pickup on garbage day? We thought we had been quite thorough.
Then came the move from the apartment to Assisted Living. Space dictated another round of donations. With the help of cousin, Cindy and her children, the Morristown Mission became the recipient of whatever family members didn’t claim. For most of a week we sorted through the contents of drawers and boxes, discovering treasures we had never before encountered. Among them, a dance-card from her high school days; collections of report cards, newspaper clipping, graduation programs and church bulletins tracing the lives of her children, grandchildren and the births of her great-grandchildren; and a love-letter written to her by my father.
The letter was dated January 26,
1946, and written in their tiny apartment at 16 Forest Street in Montclair. “My
Darling Jean,” it begins. “Since you are so engrossed in that crossword puzzle
over there, and since I’m very busy pounding these typewriter keys, for a
little practice in my typing, as you can readily see that I need, I just had to
drop you a note and tell you how much I LOVE YOU.”
And you thought “Instant Messaging”
came about in the age of the internet!
The note goes on with a critique of the used typewriter, its need of
repair to fix a couple of sticky keys and “a defect somewhere in the working of
the carriage,” a proposal to take it to a repairman on Bloom-field Avenue,”
concluding: “I don’t think the cost would be excessive.”
The next paragraph includes a
compliment on her “pretty blue blouse,” and an invitation to take a walk “up to
the avenue to get a replacement for the bottle of cream that you spilled all
over your pretty little foot...and see if maybe we can get my honey a nice big
bar of chocolate.” Then after four lines where he tells her she is the
prettiest, most wonderful, sweetest, bestest girl in the world, the [letter
ends: “Happy 65th week anniversary SWEETHEART.” Throughout their 43
years together, Dad would bring her a gift or take her out for dinner to mark
occasions like their 10,000-day anniversary.
Back in December, on the day after
Mom left us to take up residence in the heavenly place her Savior prepared for
her, we set about the task of emptying her last earthly home. Pictures came down from the walls and off the
desk. Her “Junky Five and Ten” pilgrim
candles were packed up. Several years’
worth of Christmas, Birthday & Mother’s Day cards were emp-tied of pictures
and set aside to be re-cycled. Clothing
was bagged and prepared for pick-up by the Vietnam Vets. The dumpster down the
hall was filled to overflowing twice. Photo albums, furniture, important documents
and mementos filled three vehicles bound for Pennsylvania and Massachusetts.
Among the items brought back to Pennsylvania were two black-leatherbound Bibles. The older of the two had Mom’s name embossed in Gold Letters on the tattered and torn cover. Inside, on a page decorated by angels with trumpets and cherubim, these words are found: “Presented to Jean Maynard Ackerman by Watchung Avenue Congregational Church School, June 11, 1933, Thomas Travis, Pastor.”
Tucked in between last pages was a
Tract, which began “PERSONAL WORK Is simply telling others of our experience of
Christ’s love so that they may share it. This does not call for an expert
knowledge of the Bible, or of theology, nor for skill in discussion or
argument; but it does call for an unshakeable knowledge of what Jesus has done
for us, and for a deep-rooted purpose to share that
From her beginnings in Watchung
Church, through her early married days at Bethel Baptist, and in the life of
faith continued when she and my father joined this church, in 1955, my mother’s
faith was on display. “Ever faithful, ever sure,” when she made a commitment to
do something or be part of a group she could be counted on to see it through.
For that reason words of Proverbs 3
seemed an appropriate choice for today’s first reading. I, for one, will not forget her teaching,
which most often came by observing how she lived. However, I’ll admit my heart
often chafed at, ignored and disregarded her commandments, especially when
grounded in what she considered the only way to be or do. We discussed one
difference in point of view three days before she died. She heard me out, but I
don’t think her opinion changed at all.
The reading from Proverbs 6 was
among the passages underlined in Mom’s other Bible. Those behaviors and attitudes “the Lord
hates” and which are “an abomination to him,” represent for me my mother’s
first-born code of right and wrong, what is and is not appropriate, or to be
tolerated. As a keeper of rules and one who tried to do what was expected of
her, she was easily annoyed by those who didn’t. Into her 101st year she would
grouse about the other residents of Assisted Living who didn’t come out of
their rooms to play BINGO or attend the programs offered. However, if the guest musician was too loud
or playing music she didn’t like, she had no qualms about wheeling herself out
of the first row and back to her room.
That second Bible is not as old, but
its binding is cracked and creased from frequent use. This time the presentation
page is written in my father’s hand. It reads “Presented to Jean Thyren by
Eric, December 25, 1972, with love, I Corinthians 13.” When I opened it, I found a picture of her
with Barbara Eicher and Edna Lawshe, taken on Cape Cod in the Autumn of 2000.
A bookmark came next with a quote from 1 Corinthians 16. 14: “Let all that you do be done in love.” Once again, my mother was teaching. Then came a piece of the notepaper that resided beside the telephone in the Thrumont Road kitchen. In her handwriting is a quote from Robert Dedman: “Keep your words nice and soft, just in case you have to eat them.” Folded behind it was another piece of that paper, faded yellow and stained, this time in my father’s hand, counseling: “Act the way you’d like to be and soon you’ll be the way you act.”
Flipping through the Old Testament,
I looked for notes in the margin or other passages under-lined. Next to “My God, my God, why have you
forsaken me?” from Psalm 22 she wrote, “Jesus’ trial on the cross.” It struck
me that in her lifetime there had been many occasions when she might have
uttered such a complaint.
She was five years old when the Great Depression descended, ending her father’s role in a family business, contributing to the decline of his health, necessitating a move from Jersey City to Montclair, and several moves during her formative years. Pearl Harbor brought the U.S. into World War II, with its rationing and sacrifices as she neared graduation in 1942. Her father’s death at age 51 the next year brought new challenges to the life she shared with her mother and sister and their supportive, extended family of uncles, aunts and cousins.
As you’ve already heard, marriage to
my father, the Navy veteran was bathed in love and appreciation. Nevertheless,
from the start she found herself nursing her husband through many illnesses and
ailments, a couple of heart attacks, too many surgeries to count, and a final
battle with cancer that left her a widow in her early sixties. Then came her own health issues: a burst ovarian
cyst followed by a round of chemotherapy; then an aneurism in the artery behind
her eye that led to double vision and experimental surgery at NYU Medical
Center in the city. The aneurism resulted in the loss of sight in one eye and
led to the reluctant move to Cranes Mill.
Still,
I don’t think the Psalm 22 quote was on her lips for long. Among the words underlined in her Bible were
these from Psalm 111: “I will give thanks to the Lord with my whole heart, in
the company of the upright, in the congregation.” And from Psalm 116: “I love the Lord, because
he inclined his ear to me, therefore I will call on him as long as I live.”
And boy did she live long! I chuckled to myself when I noticed she had
circled verse 4 of Psalm 39: “Lord, let me know my end, and what is the measure
of my days; let me know how fleeting my life is.” One-hundred-and-one years came and went in
the blink of her good eye, and the true measure of her days is found in the
ways she invested herself in the various roles of daughter, sister, wife, mother,
grandmother, church member and friend.
Thanks to her Singer sewing machine,
paid for fifty cents at a time, our home was adorned with curtains she made. I
was in fifth grade before I ever slept in store bought pajamas. When we walked
to school or went sleigh riding on the street out front, we were wearing matching
handknit mittens and hats. Her knitting needles continued to click away until
eyes and hands could no longer produce baby booties and hats.
Another of the underlined passages
in her Bible were the familiar words of Proverbs 16. 3, “Commit your work to
the Lord, and your plans will be established.”
My father didn’t want her to continue in the workaday world, so the
plans established for her involved caring for others and making a difference in
the larger world.
Here I pause to add that my mother
was responsible for my drug problem. You see, be-fore we had a second
car, this church was deemed to be within walking distance of our home. I was drug
along when the Women’s Fellowship ladies were raising funds to pay off the
mortgage on the Education wing by assembling RCA repair manuals. Up Thrumont
& Farrington, up Wakefield to Park, around the massive Maple tree on the
corner, on to Bloomfield Avenue and over to the church. By the time she was
Ordained as an Elder and assigned responsibility for preparing Holy Communion,
she was piloting a big, green 1953 Chevy, and I was drug along to a
laundry in Little Falls to pick up the Communion tablecloth, which came back
encased in paper and wrapped around a cardboard cylinder because it could not
show folds or creases when the Sacrament was being administered. And of course, since both my parents taught
classes during the 9:30 service and worshipped at 11:00 o’clock, I was drug
up here each Lord’s Day and worship-ped at 9:30 so I could be with my friends
in class at 11. Being drug around so much as a child contributed to my preparation
for ministry.
Mom also underlined Proverbs 17. 22: “A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a down-cast spirit dries up the bones.” She enjoyed a good party and her Tuesday night bridge club games. A weekend was a failure if there wasn’t somewhere to go, guests to entertain, or Sunday dinner to include our grandparents. In her interaction with friends, we observed caring in action in meaningful ways: she was the devoted daughter visiting her mother at Green Hill, the rock of a sister and aunt during our Uncle Dave’s cancer battle, the stalwart friend of Bridge Club Cronies facing struggles, the confidant and helper of friends as they faced their final illnesses.
Tucked in between the last page and
the back cover of her Bible was a pink, mimeographed page, probably a handout
from a class or retreat Mom attended. Three hymns are printed there. At the
center are the words and music to the Swedish hymn, “Children of the Heavenly
Father,” which my father loved and was played on the violin by Bob Eicher at
Dad’s funeral. It’s first line, “Children of the heavenly Father, safely in his
bosom gather,” put me in mind of another valued role for which my mother is
fondly remembered, and through which we have learned how to live. Her four
granddaughters called her “Grandma.” When the next generation came along, her
title was shortened to “Ggma,” (Gee-gee-ma).
From their earliest days special bonds were forged as the first and third generations made precious memories. For half of her long life, she was able to be part of their lives, providing dress-up clothes and games, welcoming them for sleepovers when they were young, to presiding over a Swedish meatball making lesson when she was ninety, attending high school and college graduations, weddings and savoring lobster and sharing a bunkbed down the shore; enjoying her delight when holding her first four great-grandchildren.
On the page below “Children of the
Heavenly Father,” are words describing how the song “offers a comforting prayer
to those who are facing trouble or the loss of a loved one.” The last two
verses outline the hope and comfort which allows us to commend Jean to God’s
care today.
Neither
life nor death shall ever
From
the Lord his children sever,
Unto
them his grace he showeth
And
their sorrows all he knoweth.
Though
he giveth and he taketh,
God
his children ne’er forsaketh,
His
the loving purpose only
To preserve them pure and holy.[ii]
At the end of his column in a recent edition of The Christian Century, Peter Marty quoted Jonas Salk, the developer of the polio vaccine, who said: “Our greatest responsibility is to be good ances-tors.”[iii]
Today we give thanks for a good
ancestor. Now it is our turn.
To God be the glory!
[i]
Personal Work, printed by Osterhus Pub. Co., 4500 W. Broadway, Minneapolis 12,
Minn., U.S.A.
[ii]
Caroline V. Sandell Berg, “Children of the Heavenly Father,” translated by
Ernst William Olson,
[iii]
Jona Salk, quoted by Peter W. Marty, “First Words,” The Christian Century,
April 2026, page 1
