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Opinion Across The Fence Life's finality knocked loudly last week Death, a familiar and unwelcome visitor, paid an unexpected call last week.
A woman I've been acquainted with for almost 30 years left this world last Thursday morning. I knew she'd been ill, but the news of her death still came as a shock. Gwen was a remarkable woman. She was striking in appearance, possessing a luxurious mane of dark hair that surrounded a square-jawed face and dimpled chin. In the memorial service Saturday afternoon, family members described her as "tough," and that description went unchallenged. But it wasn't Gwen's tomboy tendencies that formed the foundation of her strength. Once she'd made up her mind about something, she wasn't easily swayed. And she was willing to stand up for her beliefs. Her arguments were strong because she'd taken the time to weigh her personal beliefs. She lived the principles that formed the guideposts for her life. Beneath Gwen's toughness was a well-spring of gentle kindness. She loved nature; everyone she encountered quickly came to know and appreciate the magnitude of her concern for all of God's creatures. Many stray dogs along her delivery routes were blessed by her attention. Gwen might not have been a card-carrying member of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, but she was a living testimony to its mission. I'll always remember her smile. It spread across her face with the quiet complexity of a rainbow — sometimes quick and bright and sometimes with slow determination and lazy indulgence. Either way, its glow always radiated acceptance. Her smile made you smile. I'll never forget her eyes: they were dark and deep. She possessed the remarkable ability to see beneath exteriors and recognize the person's soul. They were the eyes of an artist. She fostered an incredible gift for capturing amazing images on film. Gwen brought the majesty of all God's creatures and creation into focus with her camera. Her pictures brought her immense pleasure and will continue to bless the hearts and minds of everyone who sees them. It's been said that the eyes are the window to the soul and on Saturday, as I sat in a room filled with so many people whose lives Gwen had touched in some way, I couldn't take my own eyes from the portrait of her at the front of the room. Over and over, as I listened to stories about her that made me laugh and some that made me cry, I kept looking at that picture and trying to focus exactly on what it was about Gwen that made her so special. It finally dawned on me as I watched a slide show that highlighted her life. The look in Gwen's eyes was one of serenity and acceptance and knowing. Somehow, she seemed to have mastered the mundane events of this world and transcended them to a place of peacefulness that permeated every part of her being. Thoughts for herself always fell behind her concerns for others. She appeared content with the world and accepted all of the companions with two legs, four legs, wings or fins that shared it. Gwen seemed to know exactly who she was and to understand her relationship to the rest of creation. Her spirit was strong, even when her body began to fail, and her connection to all that's good in the Universe will never fade away. Even though my heart may be sad, I can't linger there for long — because Gwen wouldn't want sadness and grief to overshadow the love she had for her friends and family. That love will remain, and it will sustain us, until we all gather at the place where God creates rainbows. * * * Last week was hard. Earlier in the week I'd come into contact with others who were experiencing the ravages of disease. For some, it's a personal fight for survival. For others, it is the heart-wrenching struggle of watching someone we love endure pain and discomfort. Don Spence, a new friend of mine, shared part of his personal experience when they heard the first words about his wife's illness. I'm sharing them now, with his permission. They were not the words we wanted to hear from the now teary-eyed doctor. My beloved mate has cancer in both breasts. You have suspected, you think you are prepared for the words, but hearing them stabs deep to the heart of your being. You want to run, but you can't escape, you want to retreat into your own world, but you know that you must put yourself aside and focus on her. There will be time for you later. Time, for a short while, seems to just blur and swirl as the word hits you again and again. Cancer. Cancer. Cancer. The tears come now a little; but there will be a lot more later as the full impact of the battle ahead and its possible finality really sinks in. God, help her. God, help me. Everyone is forever changed because now there are … "Dandelions in our yard." Kathie Greer: Columnist and consultant for the Amarillo Independent. She can be reached at kathie@amarilloindy.com. E-mail
comments about this story Posted: January 17, 2008
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