My grade school librarian, the woman who introduced me to the Moffats, the Austins, the Brontes, and the first book that ever made me cry, Bridge to Terabithia, has died.
She was a tiny woman with wire glasses and a puff of gray and black hair and blue, blue eyes. Her hands were delicate, like origami swans, and I can still see them fluttering up to pull books off the shelves for me. I was in fourth grade when she put an arm around my shoulder and told me what a special book Terabithia was, and that she felt I was ready for it.
She knew because, in addition to being an absolutley ideal children's librarian, Mrs. D. was one of my oldest friend's grandmother--I've known her since I was five. She was also one of those sweet, happy ladies who gave her entire life to her family and her church. God made the best kind of difference in her life--Catholicism helped her to be happy and loving and good, rather than guilt-ridden and fearful and angry, like so many of the other old Catholic ladies I knew.
I'm sad for her family, but I'm happy for Mrs. D. She lived a great life, and now I know she's right where she wanted to be. What more can anyone ask for?
10 comments:
She sounds like a marvel.
She really was. She set the standard for children's librarians, and I know I'd never have the patience and pure goodness it takes to measure up.
I'll sling a Chaplet of Divine Mercy for her. She sounds like someone sent to be a blessing to a world in short supply thereof.
-J.
P.S. I forgot who said this at a funeral Mass one time, but the phrase "Only people truly special to God die at this time of the year."
God
Bless
Her.
Those are my absolute favorite kind of little old ladies.
Gina, I bet she was so happy that you chose to be a librarian too. Thanks for sharing her with us. What a testament that is to her positive influence on your life, however directly or tangentially. I hope her passing was peaceful.
I think one of the most beautiful phrases in all of language is a prayer that's said when someone dies -- I think it's especially beautiful when you say it in Latin (and Mrs. D. would have remembered a time when the entire liturgy was said in Latin):
Requiem aeternam, dona eis Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis. (Grant her eternal rest, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her.)
Thanks, all of you. I think I will honestly find a celebration at the funeral home tonight. In an odd way, her death makes me feel happy.
Right this very instant, Mrs. D is in an infinitely better place. Where there is no hunger, or poverty, or cruelty, or violence, or selfishness. An eternity of everlasting happiness devoid of suffering and all of the ugliness of this earth.
We mourn because we miss, but we should be rejoicing and "in joyful hope" to see the likes of her again, and grateful we touched, for the briefest shining instant someone like that.
-J.
I'm back from the funeral home, and I was right. I won't say it was a party, but it was a happy time. Teddy and I had a nice talk about death and God and Church . . . our lives are truly better for having known her.
" our lives are truly better for having known her"
i can't think of a better thing to say about someone.
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