Mother-in-Law and the Japanese Malabar Spinach

While cleaning the freezer, I pulled a small container from the corner that must have been forgotten for a very long time. I stood completely still as the moment caught me. It was not one of my usual household containers; it was a package shipped from out of state a long time ago. My mother-in-law had hand-picked fresh kumquats from her backyard, transformed them into homemade jam, carefully packed them into this container, and shipped it to us.

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To me, she was the embodiment of the resourceful, devoted Asian woman.

Later, during our visits, whenever we tried to present her with a monetary gift as a token of our respect, she would never accept it right away. She would playfully delay, saying, "Go enjoy your vacation first. If you have anything left over when you return, give it to Mom." At times, we had to rely on a brother-in-law to cleverly joke with her just to ease her into accepting it.

While every visit was filled with immense joy, we dreaded the moments of farewell the most—especially since the time my father-in-law passed away.

Before that, even when her health was failing, she always showed up for her children, grandchildren, and their friends, energized by pure joy. The food she cooked was always the center of gravity that drew us all together. I remember an American friend who, after finishing his meal, quietly slipped down to the kitchen, showed her his empty bowl, and asked, "Can I have one more?"

In those days, the house almost always felt as lively as a feast.

During the difficult years back home, with her husband away, she single-handedly managed to raise a large family of siblings, all boys, with only a single daughter. 

When her son (who would later become my husband) was deployed to a remote, deep-country military assignment without anyone knowing where he was, she investigated relentlessly until she discovered its exact location. She toiled through an arduous journey all the way to the site just to bring him care packages, ensuring he had gifts to share with his brothers-in-arms.

With a breakfast stall serving just a few distinct soup bowls and dishes from the heart of the central region, she brought the authentic flavors of her birthplace to life with a mastery so rare that travelers from afar would seek her out. And that tiny stall became the foundation that raised and nourished my husband's entire family back then. 

On one visit to her home, I arrived when she was observing her traditional vegetarian days. She showed me a few quick, simple, yet delicious recipes. Whenever the opportunity arose, she would make generous offerings to the temple, and she always hosted guests with immense abundance. She loved people; her charity was truly given with an open, ungrudging heart. I was told that for a time, she would buy bags of rice just to scatter for the birds in the backyard. On days she was too ill to go outside, the pigeons surely missed her.

* * *

From time to time, we would consult the parents on both sides to sow the seeds of small charitable acts. For instance, we would say, "Mom, we are giving you this money to donate... would you like to direct it here?" On one such occasion, she agreed immediately, contributing to a temple fund to provide hot meals for war refugees.

Even later, when she was frail, the moment she regained a bit of strength, she would forge out into the garden to dig up Japanese Malabar spinach roots to seed and send to my husband and me to plant our own food. The greens were sweet and crisp—much like the laughter and vibrant conversations her food brought to so many people over the years.

Then came the long months she spent ill in bed. Yet, somehow, her mind remained sharp and lucid, her voice clear as she gave precise, detailed instructions to her children.

The Buddhist Nun came to chant the morning and afternoon sutras. And that evening, she passed away. The children turned on the Master’s audio recording of reciting the name of Amitabha Buddha, chanting along to escort her. The siblings kept the phone line open so that we, from out-of-state, could join in the supportive chanting.

Around one or two in the morning, I felt as though she stopped by the window right opposite where I sat chanting. Knowing that she now possessed telepathy (tha tâm thông), I greeted her and sent her thoughts from my mind. I felt her simply come by to say hi, bye, and that was it—then she departed.

She was a mother, a mother-in-law, and a grandmother.

To complete a lifetime in this manner is perhaps to have lived fully and completely, leaving no room for hesitation. I believe her provisions and spiritual baggage are well-prepared for her to embark on this new journey with lightness and serenity.

The Master conducted the funeral service to officially send my mother-in-law on her way. The four elements returned to the four elements. Casting off the old coat to receive a beautiful new one.

The family had posted the obituary, requesting no monetary condolences or wreaths.

I offered my deepest gratitude to the monastics, relatives, friends, and everyone who had joined, had been joining, and would join us in quieting their minds to send prayers to the compassionate energy of Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva and Mahasthamaprapta Bodhisattva, assisting Amitabha Buddha in radiating light to welcome my mother-in-law to peaceful, radiant lands—pure lands forever filled with warmth and love, where there is only a path of spiritual progression.

I thanked everyone who had woven, had been weaving, and would weave precious spiritual wreaths through moments of sincere, pure devotion, collectively wishing my mother-in-law a swift, peaceful, and happy transition into her new life.

Thank you to the friends and all those who have given, are giving, and will continue to give me the opportunity to contribute to the voice of love, Voice for Empathy, for shared feeling, compassion, and maintaining the deeply noble spiritual values between human beings. Whatever small merit is generated, I dedicate it to supporting my mother-in-law with the energy of compassion as she steps forward on her path; may the source of Compassion and Wisdom endure forever, may the world be at peace, and may all sentient beings be liberated.

Out there, the Malabar spinach remains lush, green, and sweet.

The Voice