Carol

Two weeks ago, a dear friend from my church died.

Carol was a trooper. There was nothing she couldn’t – or didn’t – do for the church. Need to know what to put in a school backpack or a Thanksgiving basket or the Tommy’s Toys box at Christmas? Ask Carol. How to make the coffee? Ask Carol. Who would bring breakfast for the Wednesday 7:30 am service crowd? What was the property committee doing? Where do the homeless in our community go for help? What was the name of the person at the nearby church who ran a food pantry? What was the history of refurbishing the Sunday School rooms? How would one get involved in outreach efforts like laundry love?

She was not shy about speaking up for donations, or how to clean up the kitchen. She could be feisty. But she wondered humbly about things that mattered to her, like how to balance the needs of immigrants flooding into the District of Columbia with other needs among the local community.  And she could be shy when talking about herself.

She didn’t waste time over-thinking things. I remember asking her one time why she always went to the late service, and never the 8:15. “What’s worship without music?” she said, as though that was completely obvious to any thinking person. Another example happened years ago, when the church’s Book Group, which met on the first Friday of the month, was looking for a new name. We’d been called the Spirituality book group, and, while we read some in spirituality, we also read more broadly on assorted topics, both fiction and non-fiction. What to call ourselves? The discussion went on and on. Carol sat there quietly and finally, with a twinkle in her eyes and a smile on her lips said, “What about the First Friday book group?” It stuck.

In the past few years, she and I would touch base occasionally about her health, which had been declining. Usually, she would be weighing her options regarding the doctor’s latest opining, always landing on the side of striving to live by treating the cancer. In December, though, at a church coffee hour, she took me aside to say that this time was different. The latest test results were bad news and she had chosen to go into hospice home care.

I asked her what it was like for her to hear this news and how she was doing with it. She shrugged. “I know I’m going to him,” she said, her voice dropping so low that I could barely hear it.

“Going to him…” I said, wondering what she meant, and whether she wanted to talk about it more. It took me a minute to realize that she might have meant Him, as in God. I told myself that this was not the time to ask about her opinion on gender pronouns and the Lord. I waited.  

“Well, you see, my dad was Catholic. And they believe that when you die, you go to purgatory first. And then God and the devil sort out what to do with you, and which one of them would get you. At home we used to talk about it that way, when someone died: where were they going? And I know I am going to God. He has told me that.”

I guess I must have mumbled something. I only remember being awe-struck.

She continued. “Well, I know one more thing. I know that He is deciding when I go. I don’t have to worry about that.” 

She said it with such calm, such peace. Looking back, I can see that Carol was already heading to God. When I talked with her that day, she was anticipating the future – looking forward to what comes next. Once again, she has shown the way, and I am grateful.