My mother succombed to cancer in 1985.  She held on as long as she could, with spirit, grace and courage.  But eventually the disease reached her brain, leaving her with just a few short weeks.

Late one afternoon, three weeks or so before the end, my father called me in Kansas City.  “Mary, oh Mary, you’ve got to come,”  he begged.  It seemed the night-time hospice nurse had taken to reading fire and brimstone Bible passages, agitating my mother.  I made the 250 mile trip by 10:00 p.m., walking in the house to my father’s tears and my mother’s mournful cries.

Snatching the Book from the nurse’s hands, I shooed her  from the room.  I took her place and stroked my mother’s arm until her trembling ceased.  Then I opened to her favorite, The Book of Ruth, and read until she fell into a quiet slumber.

With my mother’s passing, I inherited her garnet brooch.  It’s become my lucky talisman.  I’ve never lost a trial with it on my lapel.

Last year, my mother-in-law Joanna fell ill.  I did what I could for her, though I felt so inadequate. She, too, displayed grace, and gentleness, and courage during her illness.  She never complained.  When Joanna died, her daughter Virginia chose a piece of her jewelry to give me, a sapphire ring.  Though it didn’t really fit, I wore it during Joanna’s funeral mass.  Unable to concentrate on the rector’s words, I slipped a Bible from the pew in front of me.  I turned to the Book of Ruth, and read, as the rector prayed, and the people stood, and sat, in turns.  I lost myself in the story of the good daughter-in-law.

I had Joanna’s ring sized this week.  Now I wear it, as I do my mother’s brooch, to remember her.  She is always with me, like my own mother, Lucille. I draw my strength from the love these women gave me.