after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed."
— Maya Angelou
I used to hate September. I dreaded it. In my mind, it was the great “fall” into a deep, dark abyss. The month that changed my life forever evoked a sense of panic within me. My sister died at the end of September and a year later my friend Ginny died at the beginning of the month. The following week, Dawson, my friend’s husband, died. In that one year of shock, 13 deaths occurred, as well as many other tragedies. I could hardly breathe at times. Now it is 19 years later since my sister’s death and while the sadness remains some days, a peace has bloomed in my soul.
This morning I woke up to a Facebook posting called Remembering Ginny by her daughter Ann. Eighteen years is a long time and yet as I read the posts I know that Ginny still exists in so many hearts and the gratitude for her life is fresh and vibrant. Her gifts were many and varied. She blessed us because she existed. Our lives are irregular without her and yet when a great soul touches your own soul, you are never the same.
I met Ginny the year I lived with Sojourners Community. She was one of the intern coordinators. I think I loved her immediately. She taught me to love myself in that year together. She had a wonderful ability to give unconditional love. She loved her husband and her two children. Ann looked like a “mini-Ginny” and even at a young age seemed to absorb Ginny’s artistic gifts. Jake, here in Ginny’s arms, on a day of action against apartheid, was a joy in my life, too. He was such a happy child.
Well, except for the day I yelled at him. Poor Jake! I had come across Gin gardening in front of her home and Jake playing out in the front yard one Saturday. Gin and I, as was customary, launched into an intense conversation, oblivious to our surroundings. I glanced away from her gaze at one point and saw Jake with the gardening shears, open, heading towards the cat’s tail. “Jake!” I screamed. That one word startled him and he burst into tears, dropping the shears. Ginny eventually calmed him but he took a couple of days to trust me again. The person who usually made him laugh had managed to scare him silly.
Ann, to me, was such an extraordinary child. I could not quite place my finger on it until I took her to see The Land Before Time. Afterwards she wanted to get her mom flowers for no special occasion—what kid wants to do that? We went into a florist shop and she saw a pretty bouquet. She did not have enough money, but like something out of a Hallmark movie, the store manager was touched by her obvious love for her mom, and when responding to how much she had, he replied that it was exactly the right amount. We arrived home to find Ginny and her husband, Rob, sprawled out on the living room floor, having an indoor picnic, one of the many romantic moments in their marriage. She was delighted to have the flowers and we listened as Ann recounted the movie tale almost word for word, reveling in her delivery. Many times in my life, I remember that scene because that was the kind of family moment I always wished that I had lived as a child. The love in the room at the moment was so authentic that I longed to have it one day in my life.
I have so many amazing memories of Ginny. She was an earth-friendly cook—she made the best lentil burgers I have ever tasted. She was part rebel. She would get these fiery flashes of passion in her eyes about a subject that urged people not to be lukewarm about an issue. She taught me how to take a stand. She was a lover of life. I used to love to make her laugh. One day, in the middle of a hotly contested Pictionary Game, she stood up, took about three steps and collapsed in a pool of laughter on the floor. “You’re so funny!” she gasped at me. Making Ginny laugh was one of my favourite past times. At one of our intern retreats, she sat beside me on the couch on a rainy morning, and watched my curly hair dry. She helped me to see that a thing of beauty is often right before our eyes if we only look.
I remember a long walk on a beach with her, something we both cherished. Nothing clears my head and revives my soul better than a walk along the ocean or lake. That walk bonded us in a way that I treasure. I left that conversation a better person because I suddenly realized that I was lovable despite all my shortcomings. She also made me see that I am beautiful, something I had never really claimed until that point in my life. Ginny had laid the foundation for me to believe in myself and for that I will be ever grateful.
When I heard that Ginny was sick, I sent her a bouquet of balloons or flowers, I do not really remember which. I called her the next day. She began the conversation by complimenting and blessing me. I remember thinking, “that is so Ginny.” In the midst of her pain, she reached out to minister to me. I flew out to see her in the hospital, and on that visit, all the tears of the past months caught up with me. I cried quietly as I prayed with her. Suddenly, I had a sense that she was not going anywhere as fast as the doctors had thought and a deep peace settled upon me. She did get better briefly, allowing her some quality time with her family. I was not able to go to the funeral service and to this day, I regret it. Closure took a long time as I sorted through the many deaths that occurred in that thirteen-month period.
Now when I think of Ginny, memories of her smile, her laughter, her arms raised in praise during worship, the flash of passion, the love as she celebrated the Eucharist, her role as wife and mother, the intensity of conversations, her loyalty to her friends, her righteous anger, her creativity, her affirming nature, and her great compassion are what stand out. I am remembering Ginny this day, and sending blessings to Rob, Ann and Jake, as well as all of us who loved her and miss her. We are better people because of her and I will be grateful forever for this great soul.
Peace,
Suzanne
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