Carol Boss, 1945-2008

I remember when I first met Carol.

It was in the middle of winter, it was snowing pretty hard, and Deb told me, “I have someone I want you to meet.” We were courting back then, and of course it was early enough in the relationship, when you really want to do everything with the other person, even when you may not really want to. I’m not the sort of person who is at all comfortable with meeting new people, but I agreed to do it because I got the impression in how Deb said that to me, that it was important to her.

So, off Deb drove, on a night much like Friday was. Heavy snow, slippery roads. Cold and colder. Somewhere along the way, I remember asking my wife, “Who is it?”

“My mom.”

I don’t remember if I gulped like guys usually do when they find out that they’re about to meet their loved one’s mother for the first time-I’m sure I did.

But I will tell you what I do remember. I remember walking into that small house on the north side of Lansing that evening, just behind Deb, and immediately feeling the warmth of that house. Any dread or apprehension that I may have felt was stopped in its tracks.

That warmth that I felt that night came just as much from Carol as anything. She had the ability to put anyone at-ease. She was and still is the most warm-hearted person-although my wife Deb is a close second-that I personally have ever had the privilege of knowing. In fact, I think everyone here might even agree that she was SO warm-hearted that in her later years, she had to keep every room she was in as cool as possible.

But from that night onwards, Carol became a part of my life. And you know, she never did let me forget that I was her son-in-law and that I was as much a part of the family as anyone. That’s the sort of person that Carol was, wasn’t it? She had a way about her that just let you know that she cared.

Not only that. She was amazingly generous. I’ve heard stories about how she helped with special needs children at a hospital, gave generously to the homeless, and when she was in the Ovid Healthcare Center, she gave of herself encouraging others there. She was always willing to help others out.

She had a determination about her as well. Some people confuse determination with stubbornness. Being married to one of her daughters, I admit to sometimes getting it confused, too. But it requires a certain determination for a mother to raise three daughters and still do the things that needed to be done. To find the time to teach them how to be women, and mothers, and teach them how to do that without sacrificing their own sense of morality and responsibility.

She had a wicked sense of humor, as well. She enjoyed life to the full, every chance she got, and it showed in how she handled certain situations. There was when an orderly was helping her to get situated, and she was holding on to his arm, and with a twinkle in her eye, she turned to say, “Look what I have.” To be able to express humor and laughter in life’s darkest moments just goes to show what an indomitable spirit Carol had.

And she had such love in her heart, especially for her grandchildren. She adored them and doted on them just as a grandma is wont to do. There was never a shortage of hugs. There never was a shortage of memories being seeded in the hearts and minds of her grandbabies.

People sometimes say that so-and-so “lost” the battle with cancer because they died from it. But nothing could be further from the truth in Carol’s case. Quite frankly, the cancer never stood a chance with her. It took her body, but it could never take who she was. Everyone here is a living testimony of the fact that she had a wonderful ability to touch and affect lives, to make a lasting impact on whomever she met.

Which brings me to the thoughts that I want to close with.

See, Carol believed that God was punishing her because she was no longer able to paint her pictures, for whatever reason she had in mind. Maybe for the choices she had made, for the things she had done. We’ve all been there, we’ve all done it.

But you know what? God said, “No, Carol. I would never do that to you. I’m just giving you a bigger canvass to work with. And it will be a living tapestry.”

There was a program on WKAR years ago. Every show, this man with curly hair would appear, standing before a blank canvass. He’d start talking to us as he turned to that canvass and start stroking it with his brush–every once in a while, he’d dab that brush into the paint and return to his gentle strokes. Here, there. Down there a little. All the while, he would talk to his audience in that gentle voice of his. And before you knew it, you could start to see what it was that he was drawing.

And that is what has always amazed me about artists. They see what is already there on that blank canvass, and all they do is help us to see what’s really there. There’s a certain magic about it when you see it.

That living canvass that God gave her, that living tapestry that she wove with her unique, delicate touch throughout her life…  well, part of it is here today. We are that canvass.

Bill was talking to a gentleman last night as they were looking at a picture that Carol had drawn. Maybe you saw it, too, when you were here. Anyhow, at one point, Bill told the gentleman that you need to step back to see it better, which the man did.

And that’s what we need to be able to do, too. We need to be able to step back so that we can see this beautiful portrait that Carol has been working on her entire life. This woman who thought that God had taken her artistic gift away eventually became one of the greatest unsung artists you and I will ever have the privilege of knowing. With colors of kindness, generosity, determination, and love, she brushed and stroked that canvass, and we became a part of it. Not only us here, but every life that she touched is a part of it. And as we sit here today, we can’t help but admire the beauty of it all.

Yet we can’t help but sense the longing that a canvass surely feels in the absence of its artist, either. We long for those gentle strokes of Carol’s brush on our lives, her delicate yet determined touch here, there, just where they are needed.

Carol, too, surely felt that loss for us. “But Father, I’m not finished yet. I have so much more to paint.”

And that’s when God rested His hand on her shoulder and said, “Carol, it’s okay. You go rest for a while. I’ll finish it for you.”