Fierce Kindness

Helen’s love for others was impressive - genuine and unfiltered - matched only by a unyielding fortitude that kept her upright, focused and clear when facing strong winds of adversity or injustice.

She was a small, graceful woman with a natural beauty that radiated from her kind eyes. Her hands were thin and delicate, eventually reflecting the involuntary movement of Parkinson’s disease, but always welcoming me to rest in an embrace of gentle acceptance.

She was often silent, but remarkably attentive to others in the room, always creating the space for people to land, to unload their troubles and rest for a bit.

One day, she came to visit me with a check in hand.  My children had been very sick and the medical bills were high.  I told her that I could not accept her check, and her face immediately changed.  She looked directly at me with a sternness that was a stark contrast to her usual non-imposing spirit. She told me that she had the money, and I could use it.  She challenged my pridefulness and encouraged me to take the time to consider the value and importance of sharing with each other.  This was not about me, she emphasized, it was about how we care for each other in our world.  All she asked was that I do the same for others whenever possible.

Another time, she brought me a beautiful, teal blue cashmere sweater.  “Everyone should have something special,” she said.  It was lovely, petite, finely crafted, soft and welcoming - like her.  I never wore it since I struggle to wear wool, but I kept it for many years, occasionally washing it by hand to preserve the delicate fibers. I hung it in my closet where I could see it -  like a picture of her. Respectful of her lesson on sharing, I eventually gave it away, hoping that someone else could enjoy something special.

Some years later, when she contracted pneumonia, she was intubated for short time. Several attempts to remove the breathing tube had been unsuccessful and her husband Joe called to ask me to coach her through the process.  When I entered the hospital room, I remember how our eyes connected - and while she could not speak, we communicated clearly and without interruption for the next hour as we worked together to bring her body to place where she could breathe without assistance.  The connection that we shared, while invisible, was strong and palpable.  I remember the feeling to this day.

Helen loved my children as if they were her own.  Whenever we visited, after they were greeted with big hugs and kisses, my kids would run into the house and make themselves completely at home.  When they left, their bellies were full and they were filled with a grandmother’s love and authentic acceptance.

When I think of Helen, I recall the magical feeling of being loved for who I am - without exception.  Equally important, she would not shy away from expressing her honest feelings if she felt that I was missing the bigger picture.  Her strong presence, grounded in kindness and generosity, was a gift to all who met her.

When I moved west, I traveled to visit with her each year.  I was always excited to walk up the steep hill to her yellow home and see the joy in her face when she opened the door.  One year, I flew east when she had just been discharged after a long hospitalization. She loved her home and while hospitalized, she frequently expressed her wish to go home.

As I drove into Philadelphia, I called Joe to let him know that I was on my way.  There was silence on the phone.  Helen had died the day before.  In that moment, I remembered her tears the previous year when she told me that she was afraid that she would never see me again.

I miss her deeply and will always be grateful for her lessons.  I truly hope that someone, somewhere feels special in her beautiful, teal blue cashmere sweater.