It's Thursday. The day when the Sew n' Sews come to work on quilts and various projects together. They're here at the church all morning. I can hear them talking and laughing from my office. I venture out and fill my cup with their coffee, and if they're taking a break, I'll sit down and join their fellowship. (I do not sew!)
They are quieter these days. I notice it before I even get out of my car, and see their cars already here. I can feel it in the air as I enter the front door. I notice it every time the front door opens and another sew-er arrives quietly. Sometimes I find myself holding my breath for a moment, listening, and then hearing nothing, I resume my work.
Karen's not here. That's the difference. It wasn't that many weeks ago, really, that I'd see her green van in the parking lot, with the yellow ribbon magnet on the back, honoring her son-in-law in Iraq. You always heard her coming. She made several trips into the church, unloading a sewing machine from home, a plastic bucket or two of "stuff" to work with. She always brought a lot of supplies, for herself and anyone else. She never arrived quietly. She usually shouted a joyful greeting on her way in, teasingly demanding some help in unloading her supplies. Once she was settled in at her sewing station, I could hear her voice from my office, talking and laughing. She blew in like a holy wind, bringing an energy, a life, a joy to the gathering that hit you like a warm bear hug. Everybody smiles around Karen. She brought the group together in a uniqe way.
The group is a holy fire-starter group, quietly burning in faith and care. They pray over blankets that they send overseas to troops or prayer blankets for someone local who could use some tender prayers to wrap up in. Their prayers are powerful, and to recieve one of their prayer blankets is a special joy. I've seen them wrapped around people in the hospital for weeks at a time, a special source of comfort, a burst of color amidst all that hospital-white and sterile surroundings. I've held the hands of the dying, who died with a prayer blanket keeping them warm for their journey to Jesus. I've seen the blankets in the casket with the body-- because even though they couldn't take it with them, they could it least let it keep them warm up to the edge of life.
Now Karen is at home in a hospital bed by the window, wrapped in her own prayer blanket. She has pancreatic cancer. It came like a storm out of nowhere just 4 months ago and has knocked her off her feet. When she first got the diagnosis, the first group to hear about it was her Sew 'n Sew buddies. They received the news at break over coffee, and they wept together. Like a prayer blanket, they wrapped themselves around their dear sister to help strengthen her for this difficult journey.
She spends her days now looking out over the lake behind her home, sleeping, receiving visitors, drinking her iced tea, and being cared for by hospice workers and her beloved best friend and husband Jim. I visit her often, not unselfishly. It seems to do something for her, but it does more for me. I still need doses of her spirit. Just because her body is fighting her and she's losing, her spirit is still very strong. The light is still there in her eyes, and from her bed she still cares for those around her. She's saying the things she needs to say, arranging things for those who will be left behind so they're taken care of. We talk about death and life. We talk about our pasts, tell stories, and talk about what she will miss. We even laugh. We're building a deeper friendship, against everything inside of me screaming not to let myself open myself up to so much pain.
Karen used to be a middle school art teacher, and she loved her kids. She's the kind that WOULD love middle school kids in all their unpredictable energy and intensity. Karen is one of the most joyful people I've ever met. She's not afraid to tell you her opinion on things, even if she knows it runs counter to your own or the status quo. She accepts what other people think and can disagree amicably, even lovingly. She seems perpetually amused. Her favorite outfit is a T-shirt, jeans and a flannel shirt, completed by one of her many and colorful pairs of Birkenstocks. When she came to Bible Study, she came with one of her plastic buckets containing her Bible and study book, and if she thought a passage in the Bible was "ridiculous" she'd say so and why. Or if a passage bored her or was painful to get through, she shared that too. She loves Jesus and wants to follow him, but she wants it to be clear that she can still follow him with her fancy camper. She used to email me blonde jokes to pass on to my daughter, who was at first offended by such jokes, but with Karen being a sister-blond, she started to accept Karen's advice not to take herself too seriously. She emailed me funny videos that she knew might offend someone else, or recommended movies to me, not the least bit hesitant to recommend an R rated movie. I lent her some of my favorite books and she devoured them graciously. She always brings me a stack of TIME magazines that she's done with.
Her house, which is truly her home, is spacious and beautifully decorated. Very... Karen. Each room is painted in a bright color, and no one would suspect such colors would go together, but at her house they do. Her house is immaculate all the time, but she credits her husband's anal tendencies for that.
Karen laughs at herself, and often at the absurdities of this life. That doesn't mean she doesn't cry. She cries when she needs to, and when she thinks something just plain stinks, she'll express that. She's given several meals to people in need, prayed over many blankets with her buddies, and faithfully attended church in her jeans and Birks when she's not visiting her grandchildren. Her face is one I always look for in the congregation-- I know where to find her-- because every preacher needs a face out there that s/he can count on to be friendly no matter what.
She wears one of many in her collection of half-glasses, all in various bright colors, all costing about a dollar at WalMart. She loves a good bargain. She's a gracious spirit. When a lot of older women in our congregation frowned and whispered over one young adults' dreadlocks, Karen LOVED them and complimented them. She gave my daughter a bamboo plant for her birthday, something that needed very little care but would give her the satisfaction of watcing it grow and caring for it as her own.
She taught me how to play dominoes. She taught me how to play in general, to take myself less seriously, and to enjoy. At fellowship time after church, she was always in the center of things, talking and laughing, gesturing wildly at times in telling a funny story. It is a basic small town law that to truly fit in, you have to be born and raised here, or at the very least related to someone who was. Or you're never quite IN. Karen defies that rule. In just six years, she has made her presence known, and has touched the lives of people of all ages. She blew in here like a holy tornado and the fire is still dancing on top of our heads.
She knows that her time is limited, and she talks about that honestly. We cry about that sometimes. One day when she was in the hospital, she greeted me and told me she was very tired, but before I left, would I please open that bag on the chair. In it was a beautiful blue and white patterned tea and tea cup, along with Decaf Constant Comment and Earl Grey teas. She said it was a gift for being such a good friend to her, and she knew I liked my cup of tea. She also knew that I drank tea when I needed comfort, and so wordlessly, she also provided comfort to me in the midst of my losing her.
I will miss her spirit among us. Already there is a stillness, a hush over the building, that I especially feel on Thursdays. Sometimes I can't bear to see the empty parking space or to listen for and never hear her joyous, dramatic entrance. I'm learning about life and death and grief and loving even when it hurts. I'm learning about living what is truly life and not wasting my time trying to be something I'm not, or saying things I don't really believe. I learned that from Karen. I'm learning to laugh more and say "I love you" when I feel it, and to worry less about being embarrassed. I'm learning to love and grieve in community, after wandering for so long. I'm learning to be home.
Thank you, Karen. Save me a place at the heavenly banquet, will you?
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