JANE'S PLATES

“She was a role model I hadn’t known I needed.”

I was 25 when I married into a large, warm, loud, laughing, boisterous multi-generational family. I adored them all. But my greatest love was for Jane, my mother-in-law, who I admired and respected deeply. 

Jane was so bold, she wore a bright red dress to our wedding. Sleep late and she’d bounce on your bed with an obnoxious rooster alarm, singing, “Good morning, good morning, good morning, it’s time to rise and shine.” She was intelligent and loved to learn. She commanded conversations and debates, clearly articulating her points, which were rooted in education and experience. She loved God, her family, her neighbors and the world. 

When Jane’s kids were growing up, the family lived in Mexico and the Philippines; my father-in-law, who was an engineer, helped manage factories there, while Jane taught English and immersed herself in the culture and language of each country. As the kids got older, she continued her education and kept on traveling, sometimes with the family, sometimes alone. Wherever she went in the world, she collected plates; back home, she displayed them in the dining room and kitchen. They were beautiful, artistic statement pieces that inspired stories of adventure and vibrant places. 

When I met Jane, I had never left the country—I’d barely traveled out of Texas. I didn’t yet recognize my own voice. I’d spent much of my young life angry with a God who let my granny die of cancer and my papaw die  of a broken heart. As a teenager, I’d fled the Southern Baptist church that judged and condemned me for trying alcohol and exploring my sexuality. Jane shared a different version of God—one who loved and accepted. She was a role model I hadn’t known I needed.

I was 28 when she died. The business of death was new to me. Near the end, hospice was called in, but to me that was the same as giving up. It made me so angry. I yelled. I cried. I loved Jane, and I hadn’t had enough time with her. I remember shouting at my husband and his father around the pool on one of her last days. “How can you all just laugh and go about your business while Jane is dying? Why aren’t we fighting to keep her?” It made no sense to me that we would just let her go.

Jane asked for me to come sit with her. She was lying in bed, comfortable but weak. I was fighting mad, red-faced and snotty, my face soaked with tears. I asked her how she could just leave us. She said, “I know where I’m going, Mandy. You need to make sure you find a way to get there.”

My husband and I divorced a couple years after Jane died. All I saved to remind me of that time in my life were Jane’s plates. This blue and white one from Portugal is my favorite. For some reason, Jane had gone there thinking she’d get to use her Spanish. When she realized her mistake—no big deal, she just set about learning Portuguese. To me that was classic Jane: turning a challenge into an opportunity to grow.

Jane’s death shook me in a way that is still hard for me to comprehend. But those final words of hers have pursued me. I’ve tried to live boldly like she did, never hiding my love for God, my beautiful blended family, my neighbors or the world. Like her, I’ve become a traveler. Like her, I’ve collected plates from my travels. So if you’re listening, Jane: I may not have figured out exactly how to get there, but I like to think I’m on my way.

—Mandelyn Cloninger