While I was still in a meeting, I received a call from my younger brother telling me our mother had passed away. I did not expect it to happen so quickly. During the Spring Festival, we had been in Chengdu. While video chatting with Mother, she seemed perfectly fine. I hastily booked a ticket and returned to my hometown in Shandong.
My mother’s name was He Naixiang; she and my father were from the same village. The village had a beautiful name—Xilou (West Tower). However, its poetic name did not come from romantic imagery like “moonlight bathing the west tower.” Instead, legend says it originated from a landlord’s tower or blockhouse built by villagers with the surname He, hence initially called Hejia Lou (He Family Tower). Later, some villagers moved eastward, creating Donglou (East Tower), and the original settlement became Xilou. The tower itself disappeared long ago, yet the area is still colloquially known as “Lou Di” (Tower Bottom). My mother was born in this area called Lou Di.
My maternal grandmother passed away very early; Mother was only two or three years old at the time. Grandfather raised her alone, and their life was very hard. Life was difficult for most families, let alone theirs. Later, Mother married my father from the same village. Their life was tough initially. Eventually, my father started driving a tractor, later taking out loans to buy another tractor for transportation, and their living conditions gradually improved.
Good days did not last. In 1987, my father died in an accident; Mother was only 35. Thinking about it now, as a man in my forties, I can only imagine how painfully she endured that period. Perhaps since then, her asthma became severe. Later, my stepfather married my mother, moving into our home to help carry the family burden. My mother first had a little sister, who passed away before reaching six months. Then my younger brother was born.
From junior high school onward, I lived at school, seldom staying home. Holidays in junior high were somewhat frequent, but in high school, I could only go home once a week, just for half a day. My memories of Mother are fragmented. As a child, I frequently asked about my birth. She told me when pregnant with me, my sister was not yet three, making me an illegal birth under the One-Child policy. Thus, she ran away, hiding at her aunt’s home. I no longer recall those details clearly. But these stories made watching shows like “Guerrilla against Birth Control” painful rather than comedic. Hiding with fear and anxiety, how could this be humorous?
Some painful memories remain vividly etched. One year, Mother’s aunt came to visit and handed me ten yuan. I was in elementary school and had never seen so much money. After sending her off, I immediately headed to school with the ten yuan. Mother chased me for nearly two kilometers and took the money back. Recalling this incident now fills me with both sorrow and humor; Mother was still healthy back then.
Mother had limited literacy; her teaching was simple yet practical. Our surname “He” was widespread in the village, and due to her low seniority, nearly everyone we met outside had to be addressed as “uncle,” “aunt,” or “grandparent.” Mother instructed us to respect elders, greeting everyone politely, regardless of age. In junior and senior high school, she encouraged me to study diligently; in university, to make good friends and avoid trouble; when I began working, to cooperate well with colleagues; when I married, she advised me to be gentle and kind.
I rarely responded beyond agreeing. Conversations between Mother and me were limited. Her world consisted of neighbors and relatives; my life outside left me unfamiliar with these details. Likewise, my work and social circles were beyond her grasp. Each time I returned, mostly she spoke and I listened. I knew she cared deeply, and all I could say was, “I’m fine, don’t worry.”
For over a decade, Mother’s health was frail. Asthma deteriorated into severe pulmonary heart disease. My stepfather, brother, and sister cared for her tirelessly. Born in 1952, according to our local age reckoning, she would be 74 this year. Without their painstaking care, she likely would not have survived these additional years.
In August 2022, Mother’s condition worsened again. Hospitalized in Rizhao People’s Hospital, her prognosis seemed bleak. With strict pandemic restrictions in place, it was difficult for me to enter the hospital. When I finally saw her, she still recognized me. During her hospitalization, my wife shared joyful news of her pregnancy, which I told Mother. Perhaps coincidentally, Mother pulled through. The night before discharge, I stayed at Shuqi’s home; their child K had just been born. They even lent me their car to transport Mother back to Wulian from Rizhao.
On that occasion, I once again shared the gospel with her, leading her in the prayer of acceptance, which she repeated after me word by word.
“Dear Jesus, I acknowledge I am a sinner and need you. You sacrificed yourself on the cross for me, saving my life. I repent and desire eternal life. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
I encouraged her to pray to Jesus in every difficult situation, simply saying, “Jesus, save me.” I assured her we would meet again in heaven one day. But I knew nothing about local churches. She had no subsequent pastoral care, follow-up, or baptism. Whenever I returned, I would only remind her of our hope and final destination.
When Mother passed away, I contemplated arranging a Christian funeral through Rizhao’s church. But upon returning, I found my brother and sister had already made arrangements. Out of deep respect for them and immense cultural pressure, I complied with their wishes. Yet I hold this hope firmly in my heart—I believe Mother confessed with her mouth, believed in her heart, and was thus saved.
West of the village lies a ridge. The day after the burial, the weather was clear. I captured the sunset’s glow from the rooftop. Seeing the sun still hanging above the western ridge, I drove quickly, hoping to catch one more photo. Yet, within mere minutes, by the time I arrived, the sun had already vanished.
As a child, I gazed at the mountains in the east and ridges in the west, wondering what lay beyond. Once I walked eastward to Kunshan Mountain, though never reached its peak. Westward, I traveled as far as Mantangyu Village—my paternal aunt’s home and the ancestral place of an elder brother from our church in Chengdu. Seeking a broader world, I chose Sichuan University in Chengdu for college, nearly the farthest option available, requiring a two-to-three-day train journey. Nearly thirty years have passed; I’ve traveled extensively and experienced much. Yet unlike my wife, who dearly loves her hometown Harbin, I harbor less attachment to any specific place. I care deeply only for people. Wherever the ones I love reside, there my heart calls home. Even if they lived on Mars, I would regard Mars as my hometown.
My sister said that in recent bedridden years, Mother often gazed outward through the window, perhaps yearning for a walk, perhaps awaiting visitors. I feel profound regret for not spending more time with her, sympathizing deeply with her soul trapped in a fading body. Now, Mother rests somewhere unknown to me. Yet I am certain her name is inscribed in the Book of Life, and one day, surely, we will reunite.
In memory of my mother, He Naixiang (May 14, 1952 – February 8, 2025).