For You, Mom:

You held my hand.

It was a cold day in November 1975 in Garden City, MI. I was just a kid, playing street hockey, chasing the ball down the pavement. I tripped over my clunky rubber boots and landed face-first in the street. Crying, I ran past seven houses to get home—to you.

When you saw my face, you immediately noticed that half of one of my brand-new adult front teeth was gone. The other was chipped, too. You gently took my small right hand in yours as I cried in pain. With your other hand, you wiped away my tears and called Dr. Fred Kellman, our family dentist.

Dr. Kellman said there was nothing he could do at the time. I was just seven years old, and my adult teeth were too small to work on. So, we had to wait until I was a teenager.

And so began a streak of school, hockey, and baseball photos—all starring young Tommy Varcie with his signature triangular chipped tooth. From second grade to tenth, it became part of my story. I wore that chipped tooth like a badge of honor, and you loved me even more for the strength I showed.

You held my hand, Mom.

It was December 1989, my graduation day from Eastern Michigan University. You, Dad, and my grandparents sat proudly as I received my Bachelor of Science degrees in Journalism and Political Science. When the ceremony ended, we found each other in the convocation center. You gave me a big hug, told me how proud you were, and held my hand.

I lived my dream, Mom. I worked as a newspaper reporter for over ten years, covering everything from small-town events to major news stories. You read every single article I wrote, always encouraging me and telling everyone you knew—and even strangers—that your son was a journalist.

You held my hand, Mom.

It was January 28, 1997. Justin, your first grandson, was born after 23 long hours of labor at St. Mary’s Hospital in Livonia, MI—during a massive snowstorm that shut down metro Detroit. Because of my then-wife’s long labor, I was scared and grew more anxious by the minute. But you were there. You held my hand. You comforted me.

And then he cried. Justin Collin Varcie was born at 7 pounds, 7 ounces. After the nurse cleaned him up, I held him, kissed his forehead, and placed him in your arms. Your face lit up with pure joy. A new life had begun, and you were ready to help guide him with your love and wisdom.

You held my hand, Mom.

April 16, 1998. Dad passed away: He was your husband of 36 years…my father…the love of your life.

At 11:16 p.m., you, your mom Grandma Emma Budop, and I sat with him in the living room as he rested in his hospice hospital bed. After being in a coma almost 2 weeks, he sat up one last time, opened his eyes wide, and then… he was gone. We watched his spirit rise—mist-like—from his chest and disappear into the ceiling.

I held his hand for a long time. Then you came over, took my hand in yours, and we cried together.

You held my hand, Mom.

August 31, 2007. My wedding day! A perfect day: sunny, 75 degrees, filled with love. When it was time for our dance, you took my hand and we danced to “What a Wonderful World” by Louis Armstrong. You told me how proud you were of me and of Sue, and how you knew we would have a beautiful life together.

You were right, Mom. Eighteen years later, Sue and I are still going strong. She’s every bit as strong and loving as you. We’ve both drawn our strength from the woman who raised me right. You held our hands, mom.

When John and I were kids, you were fierce and protective, full of energy and unwavering love. You gave us confidence, encouragement, and never a harsh word. You raised us in a loving Christian home, with strong values and a sense of right and wrong.

As we grew, you became the heart of our family—the matriarch — not just for us, but for your entire extended Kittle family. Everyone came to you for advice, for comfort, for guidance. You touched so many lives, Judy Varcie. You held their hands, too.

You were everyone’s safe place.

John and I held your hand.

In your final days, we sat beside you, day and night, telling you how much we loved you and how grateful we were for everything you gave us. Those 11 nights that we sat alone at your home with you were deep and personal. I know you heard us, but we reflected with you what a wonderful, beautiful life we had with you as our mom. You shaped us into loving, devoted husbands and fathers. You taught us well. And even as death drew nearer for you, you still taught us.

I held your hand, Mom.

April 9, 2025. Just after noon.

I had just finished feeding you apple juice, soup, and a popsicle at 11:30 a.m. while your eyes were half open. I had just finished a lousy tuna sandwich from Meijer in the kitchen. I walked from the dining room into the living room, where you lay resting in your hospice bed and looked at you.

You had taken your last breath. I stared in disbelief for a second, then rushed to you.

I sat beside you, held your hand, and prayed to God. I watched your chest for one full minute, hoping for one more breath. But, there was none. Your soul had already gone to Heaven—reunited with Dad, your parents, and all the loved ones who had gone before you.

I called the hospice nurse, then John, then Sue.

I placed a Placido Polanco Detroit Tigers jersey over your chest—your beloved Tigers would be on TV in an hour. John and I cracked open beers and toasted to you. We celebrated your beautiful life with our wives there by your side.

You should have seen your funeral, Mom. It was just how you wanted it. Around 150-200 people came to honor you—family, friends, co-workers from Fabristeel, Macy’s, Ikea. People you traveled with to Greece, Spain, Egypt, Italy, and Turkey came to see you, including your bowling and golf league friends. Your friends from St. Matthew Lutheran Church visited as well. You were a member of that church since 1970, making you one of the longest active parishioners there.

You were loved by so many.

What hurts most now is not being able to call you. John and I talked to you at least twice a week—about everything and nothing. You were always there, just a phone call or text away.

Now, we talk to the sky or an empty space next to us, knowing you’re watching from Heaven; knowing you’re proud.

You were born with grace, Mom. And you carried it with you until the very end. Most people hope for a little grace in their final days—you had it in abundance, from your first breath to your last.

I love you, Mom. Thank you for always holding my hand.