Ah, Cathie,
how I miss you already. Not having you
in the world is hard even though we talked on the phone only occasionally and
saw each other even less. Numerous times
this fall I thought of calling you but didn’t, and the times I tried I couldn’t
reach you. Most of those attempts were
in December, when I felt such an urgency to touch base with you. The call from Ellen late Sunday afternoon
confirmed the urgency I had felt. You
died on Saturday, January 2.
For the past
few days, all I can think of is you. I
replay scenes from our friendship. Us
sitting at your dining room table drinking tea or coffee and talking. Helping you go through stacks of mail. Setting off in your van to go to church or do
errands or pick up my brother John for a day outing. He would take over the driver’s helm and we
would head out on some adventure. I
particularly remember our day trip last June—out to Deception Falls. Your right arm was still recovering from a
recent surgery, so you could not operate your electric chair. So you used your manual chair and he pushed
you through the lovely wooded trails and onto the bridge where we were
entranced by the falls. On our way home,
upon my request, we ate in Iver’s Restaurant on the Mukilteo landing. John treated us to a gourmet feast, starting
with first-class drinks: your martini,
my Sangria, and his sweet mixed drink.
Your steak, my salmon, and John’s seafood platter were all
heavenly. Then, even though we could
barely handle a bite more, John ordered the fresh strawberry shortcake for us
to share.
The three of
us enjoyed dinners together in your home when I came to the island on a visit
and stayed with you. We got along so
seamlessly and splendidly, a perfect company of three. I remember our attempts to stop you from
standing up to reach the cupboards or pull a heavy pan from the oven. “Sit down, Cathie!” I would say. “Let me get the plates out.” John would take the oven mitt from you as he
said, “I’ll take care of that.” It was
so hard for you to stand, what with the diabetic neuropathy in your legs and
feet and the rheumatoid arthritis. So
often you pushed yourself beyond your endurance. We just wanted to give you a break.
Perhaps I
should go back in time and recall how you and I first met. It was February of 2011, I believe, and I was
going to lead a small group study for Lent.
Nancy signed up for it and also signed you up, even though you were a
member of a different church. With your
consent, she suggested we meet at your house to make it easier for you—after
all, you loved hosting groups in your home.
And if we met there, you did not have to worry about and arrange for a
driver. What a gracious hostess you were for our group, which continued on in
various configurations for several years after the initial six-week
commitment.
Then in the
early part of 2013, you were without a caregiver and going through a hard
time. My heart went out to you, so I
started coming over to help you with your paperwork. As we worked together and talked even more,
we found the treasure of a deep friendship.
And then my mother died, and I decided to move to Oklahoma to be with my
daughter and her family.
In the next
two years, I visited the island three times and stayed with you. We got along so well and you so graciously
let me use your van. Sometimes I would
go out by myself for a good part of the day to see friends, walk the beach, run
a few errands. Other times we did those
things (well, not beach walks) together.
There was an ease to staying with you—it was like coming home.
To think
that I never knew you during your active, healthier years. You raised your children, worked, somehow
carried on after the early death of your husband. You raised one granddaughter and, when she had
a daughter, doted on your great-granddaughter.
You endured much heartbreak, physical suffering, and increasing
limitations. The diabetes and rheumatoid
arthritis conspired to put you in a wheelchair and rob you of most of your
eyesight. But you bravely soldiered on.
Yesterday,
when I was greeting families bringing their babes and young children to my
church’s child care, I started thinking about how you would excel in this
ministry. I envisioned you maneuvering
your electric chair to a good spot in the hallway. I could see your big smile and hear your
voice greet everyone with such vivacity and warmth. From there I imagined you zipping around
heaven in your wheelchair and joyously greeting your Savior and your loved
ones. But then, with a jolt of surprise,
I realized that you don’t need your wheelchair anymore. Your legs are strong, your vision clear, and
your hearing perfect. Immersed in
Christ’s love, you are joyously worshipping the King of Kings and celebrating
with all the saints.
And now my
tears fall, both in gratitude and in sorrow.
I miss you so much, Cathie, yet I am so happy for you. And I look forward to our future reunion in
heaven.
