The hour was late, easily after midnight, and I had just gone to bed. I made myself comfortable with propped up pillows as I was not quite ready for sleep. Suddenly, a name popped out of my past: a former parishioner with whom I had become friendly. I googled her on my faithful, smart phone with the intention to update her as a contact on my ever-growing list. Then, I gasped. An obituary popped up with her name; all of the demographics were accurate. This really was my old friend who, apparently, had died in February, 2014. Tears sprang to my eyes as a number of memories pictured themselves in my mind’s eye. Dear Peggy, some sixteen years my senior: petite, stylish, cute actually with her cap of carefully styled, chin-length gray hair, who was a real asset to the small, struggling church I tried to serve during the first few years of this troubled century. How many pots of coffee had we drained as we discussed ways to bring people into that parish? Indeed, how much laughter echoed out toward the woods of her property behind that charming doll-house, while we sat outside, under a bower of trees? She and her younger husband (by several years) had created a lovely setting for themselves. A second marriage for each of them, they took refuge in a pretty piece of property in a small town in northern Indiana, also home to many Amish people. I recall sweet, twilight evenings, talking outside with the sound of horses and buggies clopping down the pretty streets. I used to marvel at the unexpected opportunity to hear something like that in 2001!
Meanwhile, as I read through the tenderly written obituary, I remembered my new friend’s unstinting compassion that first year of ministry to the church. My mother had just died and Peggy’s kindness meant a great deal to me then. She was a much older, big sister, if you will. She was just enough older than I was to get away with advising me on various issues as they presented themselves in the sometimes troubled congregation. I had discovered a kindred spirit.
