One of the main benefactors and favorite patrons of our library passed away Monday.
For as long as I’ve worked there, she’s generously donated her money, resources, and time to our department in particular, plus an enormous Birnam Wood-sized poinsettia every winter. She even continued her support in death: her family asked that any memorials be made to the library.
She was that kind of person.
Her death came as a thunderclap shock to most of us—she’d visited us a week ago and she was as hale and happy as an eighty-one year old woman can be, and maybe more so. We thought it must have been a heart attack or stroke.
We were shocked again when a co-worker told us she’d been diagnosed with cancer a year ago and that was why she’d donated a moving van full of her personal genealogy and local history collections to us this past spring. She didn’t want anyone to make a fuss, so she didn’t mention it much.
She was that kind of person.
I attended the visitation and the funeral this morning at a gorgeous Episcopalian cathedral with stained glass and polished wood and enclosed pews like box seats at the opera. I was raised Episcopalian, but in an Americanized, low church way. This was Anglican, with smells and bells and ruffs on the acolytes.
She was that kind of person, too.
During the homily, which was an amazing, heartfelt, and wryly humorous tribute, the priest said that our benefactor had pulled him aside one day at a social event and informed him casually that she had incurable cancer and was refusing treatment. She and her husband–who is in early stage Alzheimer’s—were selling their house and moving into assisted living. She intended to arrange everything to her satisfaction and “show her children the proper way to die.”
“She told me that once she had taken care of everyone’s needs, she would suddenly pass away.” The priest looked at everyone in the congregation, sharing in everyone’s affection for this singularly determined lady. “And she did.”
I don’t know if I will ever be that unafraid and indomitable. I don’t know that I’d want to be . . .
But I do know she spent her last year with accomplishment and no regrets, taking care of her family.
There’s something to be said for that.
10 thoughts on “The Courage of Her Convictions”
That is so sad. And beautiful. And inspiring. May she rest in peace.
I’m sure wherever she is, she’s improving the place!
We can do it, too.
Yes, we can.
Hmmm. Maybe. I’d like to have that peace of mind.
What a wonderful woman, what a wonderful tribute. From that brief bit, I can say with certainty that she and my grandmother would have been fast friends, women who played by their own rules and took care of a whole community not just themselves, and all with such discretion no one ever knew until after the fact.
I think about my blog sometimes and know, just know, that my grandmother would be appalled by my willingness to share things that are private and personal and should be kept so.
Then I have to chuckle because she would have been tickled that she’s the main character in my novel, and then kill me for the things I have her do…ha!
They do sound like matched pair! Natural co-conspirators. 🙂
What a beautiful, heartfelt piece. It sounds like your life was better for having known her.
It was . . . She was a Ps and Qs type of lady—but she forgave you if you forgot.
What a lovely woman. Those are the people who are so often overlooked, in their quiet care of the rest of us. I’m glad you didn’t overlook her, Sarah.
She herself was difficult to overlook, but her good works were easily taken for granted. We’ll all have to pitch in to make them up!