On Feb. 16, Jeannine L. Robitaille died peacefully at her home, surrounded by family. She was 88. The following eulogy was delivered at her funeral Mass on Feb. 27.

Let me begin by expressing my appreciation for all of you who are here today. Believe me, my mother would be quite blown away by all the attention she’s getting, and also so moved by the number of people who were touched, either directly or indirectly, by her immense capacity for love and the love she inspired in her people. Your presence here is a testament, and for that, on behalf of my mother and my entire family, I humbly thank you.

For those of you who don’t know me, or who might not recognize me without my Boston Red Sox cap on, my name is Brian Robitaille. I’m the second-eldest child from the brood that was raised on Dyer Road in Lewiston. My sweet mother would occasionally introduce me — affectionately, I think — as her No. 2. … yeah, my siblings also thought that was SOOOO hilarious.

I confess I’m a little bit overwhelmed up here, too. Public speaking is no picnic for me. But I’m here today to pay tribute to a special lady and a remarkable woman. I will endeavor to remain composed as I convey these thoughts about her. I apologize in advance if I struggle.

And so, this is for Mom:

It’s her hands that I remember.

Gentle, delicate, beautiful hands, beautiful to me even after age and arthritis had had their terrible way with them. As a boy, whenever I was sick, I remember how those hands pressed against my forehead to gauge how feverish I was. And while the cough syrup and children’s aspirin and Vicks VapoRub did put a dent in my delirium, it was Mom’s hands, in concert with her whispered words of comfort, that did more to mend her hurting child and bring him back to full health.

Roger and Jeannine Robitaille on their wedding day on May 2, 1959. Photo courtesy of Brian Robitaille

Growing up, it seemed to me those hands never stopped moving. And how could they? Jeannine and her husband, Roger, brought eight new souls into the world, four boys and four girls, all of whom were born in the 1960s. You’d have thought they were raising an army! When Mom became pregnant with Julie, the baby of the family, and shared the news of her latest blessing with the older kids, my 6-year-old self informed her in no uncertain terms that I’d be moving out — that was it — and I’d go live with the neighbors across the street. This single bathroom household thing wasn’t working out — not for her No. 2.

But Mom, who skipped a grade in elementary school and was always a fiercely intelligent scholar, was also, it should be noted, really good at math. So in hindsight, none of us should be terribly surprised that she would apply herself with such grim determination to one divine imperative in particular: “Go forth and multiply.” In this way, she was audacious and clearly unafraid of having her hands full. For much more than a decade and then some, she had little ones chirping and crying and running and pooping and completely dependent on those incessantly busy hands.

It’s her hands that I remember.

Jeannine Robitaille with her four oldest children, from left, Brian, James, Alan and Jeri. Photo courtesy of Brian Robitaille

I still marvel at the memories of how hard they worked. Those school-day mornings when she managed to feed and clean and clothe eight kids at varying stages of development — nine, if you count Dad! — and marshaled the lot of us out the door and in time for the buses. If she was ever daunted or deflated, she didn’t show it. To this day, I always think about my mother whenever I hear the phrase “keeping all your ducks in a row.” She was such a pro at that.

Wealthy? No. But rich in ways that are far more difficult to quantify. We never wanted for clothing, we never missed a meal, never went without a warm, safe place to sleep, never lacked for her attention when we needed help with our homework. There is no known calculus that can accurately place a value or a limit on all that this woman was capable of doing or the extent to which she was capable of loving.

Many years later, she brought this same maternal virtuosity to the next generation as Mémère Robitaille played such a pivotal role in raising and providing for her grandkids. It has been obvious to me for my entire adult life, but especially in the months and days during Mom’s gradual decline, just how profound an effect she has had on all of my nieces and nephews, who, it’s 100% safe to say, adore their Mémère. No human being is perfect, I know that, but Mom showed us that some get a lot closer to the bull’s-eye than others.

It’s her hands that I remember.

How many times did I see them come together with such pride as she applauded the accomplishments — great and small — of all the children and grandchildren she loved so dearly? Dance recitals, athletic events, school plays, science fairs, report cards … well, some report cards … First Communions, graduations, weddings. And of course, births and baptisms, too. Nothing brought Mom more joy than welcoming new babies into the fold.

Jeannine Robitaille, left, feeds baby Alan while husband Roger holds the couple’s first dog, a Pomeranian named Penny. Photo courtesy of Brian Robitaille

Each of them was a precious gift, and Mom never missed an opportunity to celebrate their arrivals, their antics, their achievements and every single day she was able to spend in their company. Especially at camp in South Harpswell. How Mom loved her cottage by the sea, where she played card games and corn hole, dominos and horseshoes, where she entertained and lived large and laughed and made us laugh with her litany of French expressions of exasperation: “Je te dit!” … “Pour l’amour du ciel!” … “Bon!” … “Veux-tu bien dire!” … “Sainte-Apostrophe!”

It’s her hands that I remember.

Because I saw them clasped in prayer so much when I was growing up. A lifelong devout Roman Catholic, she attended Mass every weekend and every Holy Day, and believed without question in the protection of the saints, especially of the Holy Mother. She drew strength from her faith that didn’t just make her dreams come true, but also allowed her to project that strength onto all of us. In this way, she helped us all to thrive and to endure.

And even if some of her children didn’t embrace her beliefs as fervently as she did — sorry, Father — Mom’s spiritual foundation nevertheless embedded a powerful moral compass in all of her progeny. I know that the compass is true, and has certainly helped to keep this duckling in his row.

Jeannine Robitaille, front row, third from left, poses for a family photo with her husband, Roger, and their eight children, including Press Herald page designer Brian, back row, second from left. Photo courtesy of Brian Robitaille

It’s her hands that I remember.

Maybe especially during that last weekend of her life, when, remarkably, impossibly, she still found the strength to wield them in poignant and expressive ways. As she lay dying, we gathered around her bedside — her husband, her sister, her children, grandchildren and greats — and we all had opportunities to tell her how much she meant to us, how much we loved her, how empty the house, the world, would feel without her in it.

She was no longer able to speak, but I do not mean to suggest she was incapable of communicating. When we held her soft hands in ours, we could feel her fingers grip our fingers, could sense her spirit stretching across the expanse that would soon divide us. Just like in my youth, it seemed to me that Mom was still trying to minister to her hurting children, helping them to find courage, easing and comforting their breaking hearts. Here she was, even in her final hours, still giving … always giving.

Jeannine L. Robitaille. Photo courtesy of Brian Robitaille

Perhaps you can understand now why it’s her hands that I remember. There’s a reason why I cling to that memory, now that those hands have finally come to rest. There’s a reason why I won’t let myself forget. You see, I believe that the last time we held those hands won’t be the last time we hold those hands.

My solemn wish for all of you gathered here today is that when you come to the end of your journey, you will discover, like I know I will one day, a pair of hands like my mother’s — gentle, delicate, beautiful hands — reaching out to you, ushering you away from the pain and hardship of this world, and tenderly, so very tenderly, welcoming you into the light of their eternal love.

Godspeed, Mom. I love you.