I have been meaning to write about a very meaningful moment from this past weekend, but I wanted to write about it when I wouldn’t be in a rush.  Tonight is the night with a silent snow falling outside and the dogs asleep at my feet.

I’m thinking tonight about a recent Carthage graduate named Jennifer Cobb, one of our finest all-around musicians and such a fine person as well.  I was the accompanist for her senior recital (for which she both sang and played cello) and I was also honored to direct her in the Lincoln Chamber Singers back when that was my group.   And since her graduation,  Jennifer has been a part of my chambies alum group, Musici Amici and has participated in every single one of their performances.  I think so highly of her.

Which is why it was so painful to receive word early last week that Jennifer’s father had suddenly died.  He had been contending for some time with (I believe) Parkinson’s Disease,  and then suffered the further blow of a stroke last year.   But he had battled back valiantly from that setback and had been doing pretty well as of late, which made his death such a stunning surprise.

I decided to drive down to Gurnee, Illinois for the visitation (Kathy was busy at the Racine Theater Guild that night) and found an absolute throng of mourners at the funeral home. In fact, the line stretched from the front door all the way to the very back of the building and then doubled back all the way back to the door again.  As soon as I saw that line, I went back to my car and grabbed my Heritage Reader and used the fifty minutes in line reading an essay that my class would be reading this week. (I should probably write to Miss Manners to make sure that I didn’t break some cardinal rule of visitation etiquette in doing this, but I am one of those people who just has to use time well.)    Just as I finished the essay, I looked up from my book to see Jennifer herself a couple feet away from me, walking along the line and greeting the visitors who had been standing in line for such a long time.    I was really floored that she had the presence of mind to do that.  She is so mature, far beyond her years.

We got to talk for a few minutes, and Jennifer told me how much it had meant to her to be in a position to help her father recover from his stroke last summer.  There was all kinds of therapy to do with him,  including exercises involving various facial expressions – designed to help build up the strength and flexibility of those muscles.  She just beamed as she recalled the many hours she spent with her dad, cheering him on through what I’m sure was a long and tough road.  I think – in fact, I know – that Jennifer counted it a true privilege that she was in a position to help her father like that.   Imagine how close they became- and imagine how much it would hurt to lose him, just as he seemed to be doing so well.

I know they say that the worst thing you can do is deign to give advice to someone who has suffered this kind of loss- and it’s also a mistake to presume that something was for the best.  But I did tell Jennifer that I did know a little bit of what she was feeling because I lost my mom quite suddenly,  without any warning whatsoever, and when she was only 58.  But as hard as it was to lose her that way,  I think my siblings and I are grateful that she was spared the ordeal of a long and hard decline.  Yes, her sudden death meant being deprived of a final goodbye.  But I am more than willing to give that up if it meant quick death while life was still so good for her.  I know Jennifer is terribly sad about her father’s unexpected death, but I encouraged her to think about how much better her dad was doing towards the end- and how much better it was for him to leave this life under those circumstances.

Of course, in the end we do not get to choose the timing or circumstances of our own death – or the death of someone we love.  All we can do is try to be the best son or the best daughter (or spouse or neighbor or friend) we can be, under whatever circumstances we are given.  Kathy and Polly were so tender and patient with their mom in her difficult last years  and I think one of my most powerful memories of Jan is the image of her sitting in her room, seeming to fade from view,  mentally, but  Kathy and / or Polly – and even Lorelai –                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                doing what they could to keep her there and to help her know that she was loved.   I know both from talking with Jennifer and with her mom that her dad, for all he was struggling with,  knew that he was loved.   And isn’t that what counts more than anything?

pictured above:  Jennifer Cobb shortly before her senior recital.