I met Lois when I was the associate rector at Calvary Episcopal Church. We bonded over many things especially our love for the food and clothing pantry--well that was our first bond--the list has no limits. After I left Calvary, I respected the boundaries put in place. Initially I'd get a note from her occasionally telling me she was thinking about me and missed me. Over the years we resumed our get togethers. Sometimes just the two of us at her favorite restaurant Selena's where she reigned even having a manhatten named just for her--the O'Hara. More often I saw her with a wonderful group of people who had been friends for years and yet welcomed Chris and I with open arms. We shared Mother's Day brunches, Mardi Gras dinners, and Easter afternoons. But it had been awhile--life had happened and I was constantly saying, "next time" not knowing the next time wouldn't come.
After receiving permission from her current priest (who by the way laughed at me for asking), I headed over to the hospital to see Lois. I walked in the room and her face lit up. "Well look who's here?!?!" she said with a grin. She was weak--that was clear. We talked some and she told me she knew this was the end and she was okay with that. For once I didn't break down but instead listened as I held her hand. As I got up to leave knowing she was exhausted, I leaned down to kiss her and said, "I do love you so, Lois." "I know you do," she whispered "And I love you too. I'll love you even more if you bring me a manhatten." Tears, at that point, welled up in my eyes but instead of sobbing I laughed as she added, "Well I guess you'll just have to have one for me."
Over the next few days I kept up with how Lois was doing--within 24 hours she had stopped responding. One afternoon I was heading over to see her again, but as I pulled into the parking lot I turned the car around. Perhaps it was cowardly, but I just wanted to remember our last time together and how I giggled the whole way down in the elevator with people staring at me--Lois would have understood.
I was asked to participate in her burial service--an extreme honor. I was determined to make Lois proud. The Rev. Ben Sanders preached using the Old Testament reading of Micah 6:6-8 particularly "to do justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with God" weaving the threads of Lois's life together. We were reminded of Lois's fierce spirit, her unwavering loyalty, her blunt speech, and the generosity of her love which she bestowed on everyone. We remembered a tiny fierce woman who never "put on airs" but instead was herself and allowed everyone around her to do the same. And she did all this with quiet confidence, dignity, and humility. As I listened I thought two things. One, I want The Rev. Ben Sanders to preach my funeral and two, I want him to be able to say the same things about me.
Following the Eucharist the four clergy moved ourselves to Lois's cremains and as the final prayers were said I thought about how much Lois reminded me of my Gangan--same button nose, same fierce love and defense of me even when I'm not sure I deserved it. I thought about the letter I had written to Gangan after she died (A Letter to Gangan), specifically I thought about all the things I hadn't had the time or taken the time to learn from her, and then I thought, "And I've done the same thing with Lois. There was so much more I wanted to learn--and she never gave me the recipe for her rum cake. She said we had time!" Suddenly the arm I had just broken a moment before patting myself on the back for how very "professional" I was being, dangled at my side as the tears started falling--a lie--I began sobbing--flat out ugly crying. And I couldn't stop even though I knew I was being completely unprofessional. Fortunately I had another arm that could reach out and receive the handkerchief being handed to me--it's going to take quite a lot of stain stick to get it clean.
I have been embarrassed about that scene--not because I don't think I should have been able to grieve but because it was so public when I was "supposed" to be the professional. I've been embarrassed but more I've not been able to let go of regretting the time I didn't spend, the lessons I didn't learn.
This morning as I ran on the beach, my mind again went to these two women and to many others who I regret not spending more time with and I thought, "What does it take to learn?" The truth is, I don't think we ever completely "learn." I think with every loved one who dies we learn a little more--we are reminded yet again the life is short, and we pledge to do better--to make more time, to reach out, to say I love you, but I also let go, or began to let go, of the need to be perfect. I gave myself a break--yes there were times I had to say no to Lois recently but each one was because of an obligation for one of the children and she wouldn't have wanted it any other way--she forgave me, or rather never felt a need to forgive me, so I needed to forgive myself.
I think what I can truly learn is instead of focusing on the regrets, the missed chances, the lost opportunities to give thanks for the time and love we did share. When we love people fully and completely, there is never enough time...and that's my professional opinion.
Life is short and we have too little time to gladden the hearts of those who travel the way with us. So, be swift to love and make haste to be kind…Henri-Frederic Amiel
I think I'll have a manhatten tonight....
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