I always thought a traditional funeral, complete with open-casket wake the night before, was a foolish ritual whose primary purpose was to support and perpetuate the funeral industry. I had been to a few wakes as a young girl and found the whole experience dreary. I would be ushered into a dimly lit room with chairs lined up in front of the deceased, who now looked like a frightening and very bizarre version of his or her former self. Relatives would speak in whispers, hug and kiss quietly, keep their heads bowed, and occasionally dab their eyes. For reasons known only to funeral directors, the rooms were always uncomfortably warm and close. I can still feel the relief of stepping out of those bleak buildings and taking that first deep draft of cool night air.

So, when my oldest brother said that we were going to put on a traditional Catholic funeral for my mother — complete with open-casket wake — I cringed. I knew that my orthodox mother expected to be laid in the ground with the full accoutrement of ritual and prayer — and I was willing to do my part to make that happen — but I was certain the whole thing, especially the wake, would be dreary.

I was wrong. Oh so wrong.

My brothers and sisters and I live all over the country. Communicating with all five requires a lot of phone calls or emails, so we set up a teleconference a week before the funeral to arrange everything. The call was fun. We debated the merits of various readings, tossing verses at one another and checking them in our Bibles and online concordances. We sang snippets of hymns to one another, groaning at the truly dreadful and laughing when we found just the right ones. We organized the order of the wake prayer service. We talked about restaurants for post-wake and post-funeral receptions. We made lists of who had to do what. By the end of the call, we were ready to put on a full Catholic funeral.

During the call there were many things on which we didn't agree. If one wanted a particular hymn or reading, another might blurt out, "Oh God, not that." But there was one thing on which we all agreed: Each of the five of us would give Mother a three- to five-minute eulogy at the wake. I was too busy getting to Wisconsin for the funeral to worry about what I was going to say. But at 2 o'clock the afternoon of the wake, it was time. I sat on the hotel bed and started writing in my journal:

Dear God, what can I say about someone who was so difficult, so focused, so sure that her way was the only way? What can I say about someone who is so different from me?

Different? The voice of Spirit wrote back. Different? Try this: In what ways are you the same?

Well, I've been joking for years that I'm turning into my mother. I have her skin (thank God). I have her hands. I have her wacko Dear Abby hair. Left to its own devices, it will stand up and curl around my forehead. As a teenager, I slept on orange juice cans in order to obliterate those obnoxious curls. I no longer have the energy or desire to fight them; I just let them swoop. I have her jowls — or at least I can see them coming. On a bad day, I look in the mirror and see my mother looking back at me and scream, "Back! Back! I'm not ready for you!" But these are all jokes. Good for a laugh over wine with my girlfriends, all of whom fret over turning into their mothers.

But now this was serious. It was time to write my mother's eulogy, and the voice of Spirit in my journal was leading me to the truth: I am turning into my mother. I wrote frantically, snatching ideas as they floated onto the page. When I was finished, I called my brother Jay. "Have you taken her jewelry out of the safe-deposit box?" I asked. He had. "Would you please bring her gold watch and earrings? My eulogy is about turning into my mother, and I'd like to wear her jewelry when I say that."

The wake was really quite delightful. We had set up little vignettes of photographs from various stages of her life around the room. People loved stopping to read her genealogies or look at her baby pictures or stare at her wedding photo. At one table we put out a journal in which people could write memories while munching on her favorite dark chocolate. Finally, it was time for the prayer service. Forty people sat down. We read the readings and said the prayers the five of us had planned. Then, it was time for the eulogies.

My brother Jay, the oldest, went first. He said our mother was devoted to three things: church, country and family. The crowd nodded knowingly. Then he paused and said, "Oh, there was one other thing Mother was devoted to ... vitamins." He got a big laugh.

When it was my sister Claire's turn, she thanked her children for doing all the heavy lifting for their grandmother: mowing the lawn, shoveling the snow, taking out the garbage. She thanked her ex-husband for being a devoted son-in-law. And she acknowledged the difficulty of being our mother's daughter. "But," Claire said, "if it's true that we choose our parents, in the end, I chose wisely."

Then it was my turn. I patted my mother's gold watch, checked that the old-fashioned screw earrings were still in place, clutched my 3-by-5 card, and stood up. This is what I said to the family, friends and neighbors who had come to say goodbye to Laurene Koenig Conner:

— — —

You may not know this, but my mother's name is not Laurene. It's Mary Laurene. And my name is Janet Laurene. As a young woman, I was not too happy about this. I did everything in my power to become the non-Laurene. My mother was for the Vietnam War; I marched in anti-war protests. My mother was conservative; I made sure I became a liberal. My mother was a Republican; rest assured I have never been able to push that R button, and I think I never will. My mother was Catholic; I left the church at 18. My mother was a true Midwesterner; I moved to the most non-Midwestern place I could find — California.

So I am a little surprised to discover that I have turned into my mother.

My mother was a writer. She sat at her typewriter all day long. I am a writer. I sit in front of my computer all day, sometimes long into dark.

My mother worked in her office surrounded by religious artifacts, family photos, and walls of books. I work in my office, surrounded by spiritual artifacts, family photos, and so many books, I had to have bookshelves built on three walls.

My mother loved to read the newspaper. She read the Chicago Tribune in the morning and the Sun Times at night. She read L'Osservatore Romano and the Daily Worker. (OK, not a lot of mothers do that, but she said she needed to know what the enemy was thinking.) She read the Wanderer Forum Foundation paper and her favorite, The Wall Street Journal. Now, I know I can get my news online or on TV, but I love to hold my newspaper and turn the pages. I love my newspaper — The New York Times.

My mother's favorite word was "documentation," as in, "If you would just read the documentation, you would know that I am right." Our basement was wall-to-wall file cabinets overflowing with all her documentation. I, too, have documentation. I am embarrassed to tell you that I have over 90 folders in Outlook and so many documents on my C drive that I've added memory twice. I am so neurotic about protecting it all that I do a backup of a backup of a backup.

My mother wrote lists. She made daily lists and never left the house without her list. I write lists. For the day, the week, the year. I keep a running grocery list and a things-to-do-around-the-house list. And, if I do something that isn't on a list, I'm one of those ridiculous people who adds it, just so I can check it off.

My mother liked to read cookbooks. She would pour a large glass of Scotch and water, and sit and read cookbooks all evening. She was a really good cook, but most of the time she just read the cookbooks for fun. Well, last week, I caught myself sitting at the kitchen counter with a large glass of red wine and reading Ina Garten's newest cookbook — with no intention of making anything. I just wanted to read it for fun.

My mother loved to pray. Her favorite form of prayer was the rosary. And don't knock it; the rosary and my mother were a powerful combination. When Aunt Stelle, the proud mother of six boys — John, Michael, Peter, Paul, Billy and Mark — was pregnant with her seventh baby, Mom made us get down on our knees after dinner and say a rosary that Stelle would have a boy. "A boy," I protested, "Aunt Stelle wants a girl. She wants to buy dresses. I heard her say so." "No," Mom said. "If Stelle has a girl, she will be spoiled rotten; so we have to pray that Stelle has a boy." Well, you can see the results for yourself. Right, Cousin Jimmy? Well, I love to pray, too. I pray first thing in the morning, last thing at night, and several times in between. But not the rosary. My favorite form of prayer is writing.

My mother was a high, high introvert. She was perfectly content being home with her books and her ideas. But she did leave the house faithfully once a week on Wednesday to get her hair done. I, too, am a high, high introvert. I love being alone in my house with my writing, my books and my thoughts. But I faithfully leave the house every Friday at 4 p.m. for a manicure.

My mother did not clean. If I scan my memory, I cannot see her pushing a vacuum cleaner or dusting the furniture. Well, the very first thing I did when my salary hit $25,000 was get a cleaning lady. I should be ashamed to admit this, but it's the truth. If there's a mess, I look at the calendar and count the days till she's coming. I am so my mother: I do not clean!

My mother wanted to change the world. She wanted the church and the country to wake up to the dangers she saw all around. I want to change the world, too. I want "Spiritual Geography" to change the way we heal broken hearts. And I want my new book, "Writing Down the Soul," to inspire millions to engage in written dialogue with the voice of Spirit within.

It's a very odd truth indeed: I am my mother.

Now, did these things happen because they slapped the name "Laurene" on my birth certificate, or said the name "Laurene" as they poured water over my forehead? I don't know. But I know this: My mother was clear about who she was, what she believed, and how she chose to live. And I know this: I am clear about who I am, what I believe, and how I choose to live.

So, from Janet Laurene to Mary Laurene, I say goodnight, God bless, and God speed you to the next dimension of life. When I see you again — and I will see you again — I will have only two words to say to you: Thank You.

— — —

I sat down. My brother Larry and my sister Mary spoke after me, but I'm a bit of a blur on what they said. I know Larry made everyone laugh when he quoted Mother, upon hearing that he was going to marry Crisanthy, a Greek Orthodox, "Oh, the battle of Lepanto; that's my favorite battle!" Larry looked out at the audience, "Whose mother has a favorite battle?" Everyone roared.

Poor Mary spoke last. With red eyes she said, "Oh you guys, you just make me cry." But she still managed to speak eloquently about her experiences as the beloved baby of the family.

To cap the evening, we passed out music and asked the audience to belt out "I'm in the Mood for Love" — the song that, just the week before, we had learned was our parents' love song.

What an evening. What a wake. I am so glad we did it. I am so glad the five of us stood in front of our large Irish Catholic tribe and eulogized our mother, each in our own unique way. It was a beautiful experience and a beautiful way to say goodbye. I may have said it awfully late, but at least in my last goodbye, I acknowledged that my mother and I are one. And this is good.

— — —

Janet Conner, S.E. (Spiritual Explorer), is the creator of the Spiritual Geography map and author of the Spiritual Geography book series. She is currently working on a new book, "Writing Down the Soul: How to Activate and Listen to the Extraordinary Voice Within," for Conari Press. The Spiritual Geography books are available through Amazon or Spiritual Geography. Janet would love to hear about your experiences with soul writing at {email janetconner@tampabay.rr.com}janetconner@tampabay.rr.com{/email}.© copyright 2007 by Janet Conner.