My mother, Wanda Jean Hodge, passed from this earthly life on August 27, 2026. Following the death of his child, David said, “I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me” (2 Samuel 12:23). This is true of mother. She is gone. Those who loved her sorrow. Yet, we need not sorrow as those who have no hope (1 Thessalonians 4:13-18).

She was a woman of faith. Paul wrote of the faith of Lois and Eunice and the influence that they had on Timothy (2 Timothy 1:5 cf. 3:14-15). I was blessed with a father and mother of great faith. I could wish for no better.

She was a woman who wanted the best for her children. I think of James and John’s mother saying to Jesus, “Grant that these two sons of mine may sit, one on Your right hand and the other on the left, in Your kingdom” (Matthew 20:21). Of course, there is a bit of misunderstanding here about the nature of the kingdom. However, this mother wanted the best for her sons. So did mom. I can hear her say something like this.

She left cherished memories. “The memory of the righteous is blessed” (Proverbs 10:7). My brother Shaun has written a beautiful eulogy which he read at our mother’s funeral. I want to share it with you.

Eulogy for My Mom –A Life Well Lived

It’s hard to know how to sum up a person’s entire life in just a few minutes—especially when that person was simply Mom.

My mother gave birth to eight children.

And if that alone doesn’t tell you something about the strength of this woman, consider this: when she was pregnant with her youngest, Kristy, her oldest daughter, Sherry, was also expecting a child.

So Kristy entered this world already an aunt—to a niece, Misty, who was actually older than she was.

That tells you something about the size—and the uniqueness—of the family Mom created.

And because her children were spread out over so many years (we are all about 5-6 years apart…every time one started kindergarten she had another one), Mom essentially spent more than 45 years raising children.

45 years

Think about that.

Forty-Five years of diapers and school lunches. Forty-Five years of homework, practices, arguments, scraped knees, report cards, graduations, heartbreaks, victories, and everything else that comes with raising a family.

For most of my childhood, though, I never really thought of Mom as a person who had her own life before us.

She was just… Mom.

I remember when I was in kindergarten, she excitedly told me that my teacher’s name was Wanda.

She said, “Her name is Wanda!”

I just stared at her, puzzled.

I said, “Why is that so exciting?”

And she said, “Because that’s my name too!”

At 5 years old… I literally had no clue… she had a first name.

As far as I was concerned, her name had always been—and would always be—Mom.

And being Mom was a full-time job.

I remember the endless hours she spent helping me with homework and quizzing me on spelling words.

One week we worked especially hard on one word:

Circus.

Except somehow, we had practiced it as:

“Cir… Cur… Cus.”

Over and over.

Cir-Cur-Cus.

By the end of the week, Mom apparently realized there might be a problem (It is spelled Circus)

So, she finally told me, “Well, if you get it wrong, just tell them that’s how you practiced it with your mom.”

That was Mom.

If we were going down, apparently, we were going down together.

And although Mom technically graduated from school once, I like to think she graduated many more times after that.

Because she got all six of us through school.

She studied with us.

She worried with us.

She pushed us.

She celebrated with us.

Every diploma one of her children received had a little bit of her name written across it too.

My dad traveled a lot for work when I was growing up, which meant Mom had to wear every hat.

She was Mom.

She was teacher.

She was cook.

She was nurse.

She was referee.

She was disciplinarian.

And she was chauffeur…. And a hundred other things… she wore so many hats for her family.

And sometimes the chauffeur part could be a little embarrassing.

She used to drive us to school in an old 1964 Thunderbird. And that car had a very unique feature.

You could turn it off…

but apparently nobody had told the car.

Mom would pull up in front of the school, turn off the ignition, and I would desperately try to get out before anyone noticed.

But the Thunderbird would just keep going… and going… and sputtering along… eventually building to a ……crescendo of backfiring a time or two.

Right there in front of the middle school.

As a kid, I was horrified.   As an adult I would give anything to experience one more car ride to school with her.

Mom was also our protector.

I remember getting into a fight at school once and being told I couldn’t play in the football game (Grandparents were coming into town).

Mom went to the principal.

She pleaded my case and somehow convinced him to let me play.

She assured him that she would take care of the punishment at home.

Looking back, I probably would have been better off taking whatever punishment the principal had planned.

Because Mom could handle discipline too.

I remember one time she came after me with a belt.

I scrambled onto the top bunk of my bunk bed, pressed myself against the wall, and thought:

I’ve got her now. She can’t reach me up here.

Then that belt started flying over the top of the bunk.

I remember pressing myself against that wall and watching it come within inches of me.

Apparently, height was not an adequate defense against Mom.

I even ran away from home once.

She help pack my bags before I left…. Eventually after about 30 minutes and it getting dark, I decided I had made my point and came back.

Only to discover……. She had locked the front door.

I think Mom sometimes struggled with having to be the disciplinarian when Dad was away.

But that’s what she did her entire life.

She became whatever her family needed her to be.

She raised children.

She cooked.

She cleaned.

She took care of Dad.

She took care of all of us.

For decades, she carried the weight of our family on her small shoulders.

And somehow she still found room in her life to love animals.

Mom loved her birds (which she brought back from Panama) and her tiny toy poodles she bred for many years.

One time one of our Chows got loose.

Mom got in the car and drove around the neighborhood searching for it.

Finally, several blocks away, she spotted the dog standing in somebody’s front yard.

She slammed on the brakes, got out of the car, marched into the yard and proceeded to spank that dog for running away.

About that time, the homeowner came outside.

He looked at Mom.

He looked at the dog.

And he said something along the lines of:

“Lady… what are you doing to my dog?”

Wrong Chow.

It looked exactly like ours.

But it wasn’t ours.

I don’t know what explanation Mom gave that man, but somewhere there may still be a family telling the story about the strange woman who drove into their neighborhood and disciplined their perfectly innocent dog.

Mom had her own interests too.

She loved going to look at open houses….. she wasn’t serious about moving… she just loved to go and have a look around.    She was always willing to go for a drive or to go anywhere with her kids…she didn’t like just sitting at home.

Mom could cook.

She was an incredible cook, whether it was cherry cream pies.  Chocolate gravy and biscuits—which may sound strange to some people, but trust me, it’s delicious…. Chicken & Dumplings, California Tacos, Pizza boat.

And countless other meals.

She didn’t cook for a family.  She fed an army.

And she had an independent streak.

I remember one particular conversation around the dinner table during the 1992 presidential election.

Dad had voted one way.

Mom proudly announced that she had voted for Bill Clinton.

She had canceled out Dad’s vote.

She didn’t pretend to know everything about politics.

But she knew Bill Clinton was from Arkansas.

And Mom was proud to be from Arkansas.

His roots came from the same Arkansas soil that her own father had tilled and planted.

And for Mom, that connection to home meant something.

She wasn’t much of a sports fan either.

But here’s the thing about Mom:

She loved whatever her children loved.

And for me, that meant sports.

I remember when Nolan Ryan was approaching his 5,000th strikeout.

I desperately wanted to stay up and watch the game.

Mom told me I needed to go to bed.

I protested because I knew everybody at school would be talking about it the next day. I needed to know who he struck out.

So Mom made me a promise.

She would stay up and watch it for me.

The next morning, I got up and Mom proudly gave me the report:

Rickey Henderson… in the 5^th Inning with a Fastball.

And then she said something like:

“See? Your mom knows about sports.”

She didn’t really care about Nolan Ryan’s 5,000th strikeout.

She cared because I cared.

And I think that may be one of the greatest descriptions of Mom that I can give.

She cared about what mattered to us simply because we mattered to her.

Our interests became her interests.

Our worries became her worries.

Our victories became her victories.

Our disappointments became her disappointments.

When we succeeded, nobody was happier.

When we struggled, nobody believed in us more.

And that didn’t stop when we grew up.

Because today, our family didn’t just lose a mother.

We lost a wife.

We lost a sister.

We lost a grandmother.

We lost a mother in law.

We lost the woman who held so much of this family together.

But perhaps most of all…we lost our biggest fan.

Mom believed in each and every one of us.

She celebrated the big accomplishments, but she celebrated the little ones too.

She was proud of us.

She rooted for us.

She worried about us.

She defended us.

She corrected us when we needed correcting.

She fed us.

She drove us where we needed to go.

She helped us with our homework—even if occasionally she taught us to spell circus wrong.

She became whatever we needed her to become.

And she did her entire life.  

Toward the end of her life, Mom had a bad heart.

Her heart had become weak.

But I’ve been thinking about that.

And maybe there is another way to look at it.

Maybe her heart wasn’t weak because she didn’t have enough heart.

Maybe it was weak because she spent a lifetime giving it away.

She gave a piece of it to Dad.

She gave a piece of it to her brothers and sister

She gave a piece of it to every one of her children.

She gave a piece of it to every one of her daughters-in-laws and sons-in-laws.

Then to grandchildren and family.

To every person she worried about.

Every person she prayed for.

Every person she encouraged.

Every person she defended.

Every person she fed.

Every person she stayed awake for.

For a lifetime, she poured that heart into all of us.

And so although her heart finally gave out…

her love didn’t.

Because that love is standing in this room today.

It’s in her children.

It’s in her grandchildren.

It’s in the families we have created.

It’s in each and everyone of us in this room.

It’s in the stories we’re going to tell about her for the rest of our lives.

And someday, years from now, somebody will tell the story about Grandma and that old Thunderbird that wouldn’t shut off.

Or the time she spanked somebody else’s dog.

Or the time she taught a child to spell circus… a very unique way.

And we’ll laugh……And for just a moment, she’ll be right here with us again.

I spent my whole childhood knowing her by only one name……..MOM.

Today, I understand what that name really meant.

It meant sacrifice.

It meant strength.

It meant forgiveness.

It meant laughter.

It meant protection.

It meant home.  And most of all it meant LOVE

Mom, thank you for every mile you drove.

Every meal you cooked.

Every spelling word you practiced.

Every ballet, event and game you watched.

Every battle you fought for us.

Every accomplishment you celebrated.

And every piece of your heart you gave away.

You spent your life taking care of us.

And we will spend the rest of ours carrying you with us.

We love you, Mom.   And we always will.