It was half an hour before the memorial service started, so I expected to find parking. But it quickly became clear that most of my small town was headed to the church. I found a spot across the road in the college lot, and hurried along in the stream of people. Too much so, as I stepped in front of a car and the driver had to slam on her brakes. 

 

Not a good day to die. 

 

The pews were mostly full, and I sat near the back. Looking out over the crowd I wondered about the hundreds of connections represented by all these people who had cleared their schedules on a working day. The woman we were honoring had been the school secretary, and had won the affections of teenage boys over the years. One said that sophomore boys can be critical of everyone, but he had never heard anyone speak a word against Mrs. Brannon. 

 

Her husband was thick into the world of spiritual growth and recovery. I noticed a bunch of stone arrowheads around the necks of men. These were the brotherhood that have been his tribe. The preludes included songs by people who love them. Their marriage was an impactful one for many, not because it was easy but because their commitment had overpowered their struggles. They faced off with addiction, and dysfunctional families of origin, cancer, and advanced lung disease without giving up in despair. 

 

A woman at the reception told me that Carol was the reason she had stayed married. Her own family was a mess, and she would ask Carol if the craziness around her was true. Carol would smile, offer her tea, and remind her that our choices do not have to be determined by the hands we were dealt. The woman went on to say that they shared a deep love for children, and Carol had shown her what it looks like to protect innocence. 

 

Because of the health issues that kept hounding her, they lived in the moment. Unsure of what lay ahead, Carol and Deno soaked up the glory of each ordinary day. Having wanted many children but were only granted one, they loved her all the more emphatically. They brushed off any blame for their own childhoods, or the people who were less than available. They lived each day in gratitude. With no regrets. 

 

Carol's daughter was wearing her mother's clothes. Her sweater. Dress. Earrings. The shoes, it seems, were too big. Which is about right. But her daughter spoke about how something as external as clothes was a way for her to keep her Mama close, and to cling to her influence even as she is raising her own babies. 

 

The people left behind each had their stories about what this woman meant to them. Surely it is in some measure proof that she had filled her one precious life with all that really matters. Love that she takes with her even now. 

 

Maybe it was a good day to live. Forever.