First a story: The Mines of Moria were dark, dreary, and dismal. The stench was almost nauseating. Moria ran under and through the Misty Mountains and the heart of the kingdom lay beneath three great peaks of the that mountain range: Cloudyhead, Redhorn, and Silvertine. A long history exists in Moria where the Longbeard Dwarfs lived and mined its treasures, including the valuable gem mithril. But dangers covered the lands of Moria, for deep withing its depths was Durin’s bane, the Balrog, who destroyed Balin and those serving him.
Frodo was unaware of Moria’s long and treacherous history. He was only concerned with his future. The Fellowship was forced to enter Moria, and after the long journey of winding through the stench-filled halls, they came to an impasse. Three archways stood before them, and the Fellowship sat waiting for a revelation as to the direction they should go. With Gollum tracking their movements, and a distraught Hobbit already feeling the burden of carrying the evil Ring, Frodo lamented to his mentor, “I wish the Ring had not come to me.”
Frodo’s lament is our lament as we try to define or change the context of our life’s situation. Seeking a means to alter or understand a deeper meaning to our current reality is always tempting. We cry out, “I wish the Ring had not come to me.” What we are offered is Gandalf’s wisdom, in one of Tolkien’s best lines ever written, “So do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”
What do you do with the time given, especially if the time is cloaked in darkness. Tolkien was very aware of such time coming to him. He was orphaned as a child, abandoned by his family because his mother converted to Catholicism, and just when he reached the height of human optimism – both in era and in age – the most dehumanizing, demoralizing, and devastating war broke out. Other than Tolkien, only one of his Oxford schoolmates came home from World War I. Instead of pouring himself into self-pity, he poured himself into creating an entire legendarium which captured the imagination of so many readers, including our mother, to remind us that hope prevails, evil can be defeated, good still exists, and it’s worth fighting for.
Ida Pearl Mathews Partlow knew something of the struggle to decide what to do with the time, when so much of her “time” in her formulative years was shrouded in darkness – a darkness not unlike the kind covered by Middle-earth. We will never know her whole story, but the highlights include divorced dysfunctional parents, raised by her father not her mother, abducted by her mother and boyfriend passed off as an uncle, and forced to testify against her mother. Traumatized, neglected, abused do not begin to uncover the darkness mother experienced. Like an iceberg on the waters, what I’ve described is only its tip, and its bad enough. What is darkly disturbing and dangerously depraved lies beneath the waters, and we will never know that story. But it’s there. Similar to Frodo carrying the One Ring, mom never could shake what those years had done to her and were still doing to her. Maybe her greatest fear, just maybe, was devolving into Gollum, or something worse. Something a lot worse.
She fought the magnetic pull into darkness with all her strength, and everything she did seemed to be a fearful move to keep her from the darkness instead of embracing the freedom of the Light. So, as a teen she wrote Psalm 1 on paper and mounted it to the ceiling of her bedroom to read first thing in the morning and last thing at night in an effort to help form and shape her character.
As a founding member of the Ontario, Oregon Church of Christ, mom was not about to face the world or church alone. Her best friend was Pat, whom she invited to church and eventually led to Christ. She may have been the first person mom studied with, but she certainly wasn’t the last. After high school Mom and Pat packed their bags to seek their fortunes in Portland, though mom’s plans were really to enroll at Abiline Christian College. Having secured room and board at the home of Clayton and Alma Towell, the two single women were barely unpacked when a knock at the door came. Before them were two young troubadours holding guitars ready to woo the girls. One of those wide-eyed young men was our father, Dean Partlow. He was almost everything mom could hope for in a man. Almost. But the one thing he really lacked became more than mom ever imagined. She wanted, or better yet, needed a man who loved God and loved her. By their forty-seventh year together no one could have loved both our mom and God more than our dad. Part of that is attributed to dad. Part of that is attributed to mom. All of it can be attributed to God’s reckless pursuit of both.
Whatever motivation kept mom away from the darkness, she chose to serve people and found great pleasure in fulfilling the role of a servant. She used her sewing to make hospital gowns sent to Chimala Mission Hospital in Tanzania, Africa specifically for mothers and their newborns. By taking used men’s dress shirts, she cut off the collar, sleeves, and buttons before sewing the bodice together for the gown. Taking the sleeves, she made a smaller version of the gown so that the mother and child would have matching outfits when they go home.
For ten years she served the students of Columbia Christian Schools as their librarian, where a segment of the students found a solace from the world in the library with Mrs. Partlow, and likely many more appreciated her presence after graduation than before.
And mom may have been in her element when she opened her home for guests. Dad might as well have installed a revolving door; he might have been served well to charge admission. From mom’s Mystery Dinners to neighborhood children like the Van Horns to the dozen or more individuals who found a second home because they needed temporary shelter. Mind you, the purple house on Oak Street had one bathroom, so opening our home was no easy task. But that didn’t stop mom. Not a lot stopped our mother’s forward progress.
And finally, the work dad and mom invested in the Asian congregation may be unmeasurable. Friendships were established, relationships built, and people were led to Christ because of mom and dad’s hospitable presence, love for Jesus, and daring to live by faith.
If I could share with you one TikTok moment of mom – a Snapchat that highlights the very best of mom, it was on a Sunday summer afternoon in 1974. Deanna and I were playing under the dining room table. It wasn’t a normal place we found ourselves playing, but here we were doing something in our imaginary world, while conversing under the big wooden table, and of all the topics to discuss, we were talking of our church experience only hours earlier.
As it turned out, our third/fourth grade Bible teacher was a no-show, and if truth be known, so was everyone else in our class. So, Beverly Van Horn told us to go to the next class, which had no teacher either. By-passing the fifth and sixth grade class, we ventured to the junior high class in the far reaches of the old Central Church of Christ building on Stark Street. Climbing those stairs to an attic room, like Quasimodo climbing the cathedral steps of Notre Dame, we reached the room. As we opened the door, mom was sitting on a chair with the children around her in a semicircle. She was teaching class.
I cannot remember the lesson for the day. Maybe it was the little boy David down by the brook gathering five smooth stones as he prepared to face Goliath. Maybe it was Gideon, her favorite story, leading his men down to the river, not to pray, but to drink or lap like a dog, only for ten thousand soldiers to be discharged and sent home. Or maybe it was the scene in the garden, Gethsemane. And if you listen closely without falling asleep you can hear the words Jesus prayed, and if you looked intently, you could almost see his sweat dropping from his face as he was experiencing the spiritual version of the olive press. Such was the experience when mom taught Bible class.
I wish I could recall the Bible lesson, but I can’t. I do remember that as Deanna and I sat under the dining table, we were talking about Bible class from that morning. And one of us turned to the other – and who turned to whom, I can’t remember that either – but said, “You know what the best part about mom teaching Bible class is? She makes you want to be a better person.”
Allow that statement to wash over yourself for a moment. For if the gospel message we proclaim does not stir within us the passion to allow the Spirit of God to form our lives (Gal. 4:19), to conform our actions (Rom. 8:29), and to transform our behavior (2 Cor. 3:18) so that we are shaped by Christ instead of the world, then we have failed the gospel. Failed. Instead, we are to be formed, conformed, and transformed into Christ, and anything less than that is a shadow of the reality. As the prophet said, “If you want to make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and make a change.” If not, we might as well lust for the One Ring of Power and use its evil purpose for our corrupted good.
Mom felt this tension, especially in her relationships with those closest to her. She struggled to maintain clear, healthy, and proper boundaries which led to hurt and harmful moments. At times she found that friendships were informal, fun, and felt like their finality might last forever. At other times, as Galadriel warns the Fellowship, “(It) stands on the edge of a knife. Stray but a little and it will fail, to the ruin of all.” We felt that. We were witnesses of her failed attempts to maintain her relationships. And if all of us are honest, we all have felt that. Possibly driven by fear instead faith, she – or we – fail to fully keep functionally the friendships God has graced us with. I know this was mom’s struggle, to the very end.
On Friday afternoon, July 6, Steve, Tim, David, Deanna, and myself gathered around mom one final time. We invited Dick Ady to lead us in prayer. Dick asked Ida if she had any questions. Not sure what Dick was seeking or what mom might say, I moved closer. The Partlow family friendship with our minister reached back sixty years, and curiosity caught me wondering what she might say. From her own insecurity, broken woundedness, and fear of failure, she into Dick’s eyes and asked, “Wwhy do you like me?”
If we’re really honest, her cry is our cry. Her insecurity is our insecurity. Her fear is our fear. On this side of Eternity we struggle to love each other, much less like each other. But on that side of Eternity, it’s a different story, or we might say, a different song. For God heals all wounds so that the scars no longer define us or hurt anymore – and we are never the cause of hurt, again. So if you listen closely, you can almost hear her sing – because in heaven, everyone sings like an angel, even mom. From the woman who now experiences full healing, her verse to us might reverberate in humble, confessional tones:
I never meant to cause you any sorrow
I never meant to cause you any pain
I only wanted to be some kind of friend,
I only wanted to see you laughing
I only wanted to see you dancing
In the Purple Rain!
It was Dick Ady’s reassurance, an assurance promised by God, coupled with her five children gathered around her, to hold her hand, to laugh and to sing, to affirm our love, and to say goodbye. It was that reassurance she so desperately needed to drift off into a restful sleep as she ventured into the forever Undying Lands.
So to mom, we say . . .
Lay down your sweet and weary head • The night is falling • You have come to journey’s end • Sleep now and dream of the ones who came before • They are calling from the across the distant shore • Why do you weep? • What are those tears upon your face? • Soon you will see (that) all of your fears will pass away • Safe in (His) arms • You’re only sleeping
What can you see on the horizon? • Why do the white gulls call? • Across the sea a pale moon rises • The ships have come to carry you home • And all will turn to Silver glass • A light on the water • All Souls pass
Hope fades into the world of night • Through shadows falling out of memory and time • Don’t say, “We have come now to the end” • White shores are calling • You and I will meet again and you’ll be here in my arms, Just sleeping
What can you see • On the horizon? • Why do the white gulls call? • Across the sea • A pale moon rises • The ships have come to carry you home • And all will turn • To silver glass • A light on the water • Grey ships pass into the West