Pure Grace

A great lady left us yesterday. Her name was Nancy, and she was my mother-in-law for nearly forty years, and our next door neighbor for three decades. She was a quiet and modest presence who was utterly meticulous, considerate, and precise in all her ways. She tended trees and grew native plants, swam regularly until she was ninety, and loved to read and learn. I didn’t fully realize how much I had come to love her.

Nancy departed with dignity, courage, and grace, consistent with the way she had lived her life. She was ninety-five, in her own house, with her son tending to her lovingly, and I know I shouldn’t feel so sad, but isn’t this just the cruel and unavoidable way things are? You love someone, you get used to their unique ways and irreplaceable presence, and then, sooner or later you lose them, one way or another, and it’s painful.

If you’re lucky enough to live here on this beautiful Ranch, there’s some comfort in the murmur of the wind in the trees (many planted by Nancy) and the mustard shimmering yellow on the hills. But then you notice her gardening gloves by the door, or the touchingly spare and tidy contents of her closet, her careful little to-do list or the post-storm rainfall record spanning the decades, or some other personal artifact, and it’s awfully hard to bounce back into the day.

And that’s where I’m at now, dodging the little land mines. I’m weeding and watering, trying to keep things going and growing. Keeping things growing and going is now my way of honoring her, and the role she passed to me. I’ll do my best.