"Gentle woman, quiet light,
Morning star, so strong and bright,
Gentle woman, peaceful dove,
Teach us wisdom, teach us love....
You were chosen from all women
And for woman, shining one."
Two weeks ago she was telling us stories that never before passed her lips. Today, all that's left of her is a suitcase, a brownstone urn and two faded silver bands.
I haven't cried at a funeral since my father died, and even then, it was more out of sympathy for my brother than any real sadness of my own. This afternoon I was on my haunches in the convent bathroom, balling so hard my chest hurt. She was the most beautiful person I've ever met, and I doubt I'll ever meet another like her. For her entire life, she lived for the sole purpose of serving others. Her voice was sure with innocent wisdom, her gaze pure light, her presence a harbinger or safety, goodness and worth. Child-like, genuine, so full of life that misery was humbled in her presence, Helen was a living example of indiscriminate love, unconditional kindness; the epitome of human strength and beauty.
We arrived at Mont Marie early to see Sister Jane, the Mother Superior of the Sisters of Saint Joseph. Nuns always amaze me; each one is different, yet each radiate a specific light; they would call it the light of God, I suppose, though I prefer the light of Goodness. Anyway, Sister Jane talked with my mother as I went to the alter to say a prayer. As I knelt, her left silver ring caught my eye. There was an inscription inside that read: "Love, Steve", and it was as if she had whispered me a secret from Heaven. "Steve" was a man Helen used to care for, well after she'd left the convent; in fact, she talked about him quiet extensively during our last visit. Apparently, the fact that she lived in his house long after his wife had died was the scandal of the entire neighborhood, and with an innocent yet knowing smile, she confessed: "But it was never like *that*." I have no doubt about it, but regardless, it was obvious from her stories she had been in love with Steve, and that he had been in love with her. The inscription on a ring she wore for over 60 years told the entire tale.
At 3, the service started, and from the moment they began the song "Gentle Woman" to the very last "Amen", I cried, alone. When it was over, I bolted into the bathroom just as my knees buckled and I crumpled onto my haunches, then cried some more until I somehow found the strength to stand. By then, most of the mourners had left, and my mother had gone to find Helen's suitcase. I went back into the parlor, hoping to have one last moment with her alone, only to find that Helen's ashes had already been removed for transport back to Rutland. But Sister Jane was there, and, seeing how I had cried she took me in her arms and hugged me long and strong. After so many minutes she backed away, clasped my arms tight in her wrinkled hands and with the kindest voice said: "You have a piece of that woman inside of you, and you will have it until the day *you* die." I started crying again, and told her I would do my best to pass it to everyone, especially my son, and she smiled so sweetly and said that she'd pray for that, too.
My mom came in with Helen's suitcase, and we left, and I didn't stop crying until we were almost back to Albany. We went to dinner, where I was fine, but I'm crying again and I don't know why. Of course, she was going to die, eventually, and I should be thrilled that it was so peaceful. The sisters said that she was calling for her mother all day Saturday ("babshki", they said, which is Mama in Polish), and that on Sunday, before she passed, she said she actually *saw* her mother, standing beside Jesus. Coincidentally, not only was Helen with her mother when she died almost 70 years ago, but the two died on the same day, at almost exactly the same hour.
No more for now, except this:
Helen: "For all that has been, thanks. For all that will be, yes."
Love, your Doopa