My mom, Mary, lived a long and beautiful life—98 years strong. She passed away on August 10th, 2020, leaving behind a legacy rooted in faith, resilience, and unwavering love for her family.

She was born on March 25th, 1922, in Thief River Falls, Minnesota, to her parents Seraphim and Augustine Roland. Growing up on a farm, life wasn’t easy. There wasn’t much in terms of material wealth, but what she did have was something far more valuable—a strong family, a deep sense of purpose, and a childhood she always remembered fondly.

She shared stories of those early years often. You could hear it in her voice—the appreciation for simple living, hard work, and togetherness. Those lessons would shape the rest of her life. She grew up alongside her siblings—Augustine, Lucy, Louise, and Marcel—all of whom eventually passed before her. Loss was something she experienced throughout her life, but she carried it with quiet strength.

On June 17th, 1947, she married my dad, Gus. Together, they built a life centered around family. Starting in 1948, they welcomed five boys into the world—the last one being me in 1958. That meant my mom was raising five sons in a house full of energy, noise, and, at times, chaos.

And she did it with grace.

Before fully dedicating herself to raising our family, my mom had earned a two-year teaching degree after high school. Later in life—after years of motherhood—she returned to school and graduated from Winona State University in 1971 with a degree in elementary education. That alone says a lot about who she was: determined, disciplined, and committed to growing. She went on to teach for 25 years in Oakdale, WI, shaping young minds and impacting countless lives beyond our own home.

Her faith was always at the center of everything. As a devoted Catholic, she was deeply involved in her church and lived her beliefs every single day. She didn’t just talk about values—she modeled them. Quietly, consistently, and without needing recognition.

After retiring in 1987 at the age of 65, she embraced a new chapter. She traveled with close friends—Fran McCollum, Gloria Pearson, and Edna Spohn—exploring both domestic and international destinations. She loved sharing stories and photos from those trips, reliving each experience with a sense of joy and gratitude. She was also incredibly talented and active. She painted, gardened, watched birds, and exercised regularly. Many people in the town of New Lisbon remember seeing her on her daily walks—a steady, familiar presence moving through the community she loved.

But beyond all of that, beyond her accomplishments and hobbies, what stands out most to me is who she was as a mother. She was the glue that held everything together.

Imagine a household with six men—five boys and my dad. It couldn’t have been easy, especially considering my father struggled with alcoholism. There wasn’t a lot of outward emotion in our home, but my mom was always the steady, grounding force.

No matter what, she was there.

When we got hurt—whether it was bumps, scrapes, or something deeper—she was the one we went to. She had a way of listening that made you feel understood. When life got hard, when relationships failed, when hearts were broken—she didn’t judge. She just listened, supported, and gently guided.

Her faith gave her strength, and in turn, she passed that strength on to us. She was our moral compass, always pointing us in the right direction, even when we didn’t fully realize it at the time. Both of my parents were hard workers, and that work ethic became part of who we are. But my mom’s strength wasn’t loud—it was quiet, steady, and constant.

She also had a fun side.

I still remember when I was a junior in college, and she agreed to buy a brand new 1980 Mazda RX-7 knowing I would purchase it from her when I graduated.. Not exactly what you’d expect from a mom at that stage of life—but that was her. She drove it for a year, turning a few heads along the way, and then I ended up taking it Minnesota when I started at 3M. It’s one of those small memories that sticks with you.

She was there for my milestones too—like my graduation from Iowa State University and my wedding to Pamela—and for the everyday moments that matter even more.

When she later moved to the Twin Cities into a senior living home at Brookdale in Edina, it opened the door for an especially meaningful chapter in both of our lives. It was during that time that she had the chance to really get to know Pam, who was my girlfriend then. After walking through the pain of a 25-year marriage ending, I think my mom quietly recognized something in Pam that told her this was different—that this was the person I was meant to spend the rest of my life with. She didn’t make a big announcement about it; that wasn’t her way. But you could see it in her eyes, in her warmth toward Pam, and in the way she embraced her as part of the family long before the wedding day arrived. 

And when that day did come, it was one of the most beautiful memories I have of her. At 96 years old, she was as alive as I had ever seen her—fully present, engaged, and filled with joy. She walked me down the aisle in a beautiful outdoor setting, a moment I’ll never forget, symbolizing not just a new beginning for me, but her blessing over it. Elvis Presley’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love” was playing and I was tearing up as we neared the altar.  She gave me hand a squeeze as if to say “I’ve got you”.  Throughout the entire celebration, she was everywhere—on the dance floor, talking with guests, smiling, laughing—soaking in every minute, every second, every hour. She stayed late into the night, not wanting to miss a single moment. It was as if she knew how special that day was, not just for me, but for all of us. And in many ways, it felt like she was celebrating not only a wedding, but a new chapter of life she had hoped I would find.

Then, in the final chapter of her life, something unexpected happened.

During COVID, after I had temporarily lost my job, she moved in with me and Pam in March. I was fully expecting to get my job back in a few weeks or a couple of months, but my mom was isolated in her room and this was a great option for the short term.  What could have been a difficult season turned into one of the most meaningful times of my life.  I had the opportunity to care for her every day.  I made her meals. We played cards—lots of cards. We spent time together in a way that life doesn’t always allow. It was simple, but it was special.

And then, near the end, things changed quickly.

After learning the my job loss was permanent, the decision was made to vacate Brookdale and move all of her belongings in with Pam and me at our house.  She had been living in our lower level room but her furniture and the rest of her clothes were still back in Edina.  We cancelled her rental agreement and the Rubash family moved her out of her apartment on Wednesday, August 5th.  There was plenty of help with the entire family pitching in.  It was quite the celebration and Chuck and I had a few Fireballs to commemorate the happy event.

That Friday, Pam’s parents were in town and we had a wonderful meal at home, followed by a card game, and walk down the street.  It was a joyful time and I remember thinking that this is what I am supposed to be doing.  I felt there was a reason that God had given me this opportunity to be with my mom at this stage of her life.  The journey had begun in March and I was looking forward to seeing my mom into her 100s and beyond.

But God had different plans.  She suffered a stroke early in the morning of Saturday, August 8th. By Monday August 10th, she was gone.  I was there with her when she took her last breath.  Holding her and talking with her.  Singing to her.  She had told me many times that she was ready to go.  Her eyesight and hearing were failing her.  She had the aches and pains of a 98 year old that lived an active life.  She had outlived her brothers and sisters.  She had outlived most of her friends.  It was time.

Forty four years earlier, my mom and I were alone with my dad when he passed.  I don’t know if that’s coincidence, timing, or something more—but as the youngest, I was there at both beginnings of goodbye.  And that’s something I carry with me.

When I look back on my mom’s life, I don’t just see the years or the milestones. I see the consistency. The quiet strength. The love that never wavered. She didn’t need recognition. She didn’t need attention.  She just showed up—every single day—for her family.

And in the end, that’s what mattered most.  I know she is in heaven still looking over me.