Freda Jane Wood—Devoted Church Volunteer's Life Set a High Bar For Giving

Freda Jane Wood came into this world on August 26, 1957, a Baby Boomer by generation, only daughter and fourth child born to Bob and Jane Wood. At the time she was given the named of her aunt, Freda, and her mother’s name as her middle name. Growing up in Bryan with three brothers, she quickly learned to love sports, which would remain an important part of her life forever. She loved her family dearly, and she grew up in First United Methodist Church of Bryan, and clearly idolized her parents, Robert “Bob” and Jane Wood.[Photo, FUMC Bryan Directory, 1995, Jane and Freda Wood]

It was in 1993 I first met Freda, at the former 6pm Sunday evening worship services led by Rev. Bob Richers, formerly of FUMC Bryan. Freda would bring her mother, Jane, to our group of about 100 gathered for an evening opportunity to praise and worship God once again that day, furthering our resolve to live better lives in the coming week.

Two ladies, Anita and Jan, alternated playing the piano for 6 pm worship at this service you’d hear traditional “Methodist” golden oldie hymns, and a Cokesbury song or two. Freda could have easily been part of the Sanctuary Choir as she had a good second soprano voice, but that wasn’t one of her goals.

Different times over the Sunday nights, I learned from Freda a lot of the history of our church. Having grown up there, she knew virtually every member, old and new; she’d been present for each of the many developments and growth and building phases that happened through the years. Not any different than anywhere else in the United States in the 1960s, the church’s administrative structure would be described properly when you said, “The men of the church.” That was indeed the composition of those who made decisions, and those who financed with personal funds, the growth of their church.

Her father was an accountant, and the CPA firm formerly known as Durst, Wood, Milberger, et al. was part of her family history. She worked there in the office for many years, until her brother Gene opened his own accounting practice, and she joined Gene there. That was Freda by day. By night, she was at FUMC virtually “every time the doors opened,” for two reasons: (1) she loved it, and (2) she knew she might be needed to do something.

Doing “something for her church” came naturally to Freda. Never once did she have to be asked because she had already volunteered, rounded up a team, and was well on her way to fixing whatever was broken, as she saw it. The quality of never having to be asked to help because you see a need and just move to repair is rare, as things go.

[Photo, FUMC Bryan Directory, 1999, Freda and Jane Wood]

When it came to her church, every action she took was merely what she learned from childhood. She saw her father, one of the “pillars of the church,” work together with others, such as the late Joe Hanover, Holland Porter, and others who remain with us today. If something broke, they took out a pen, opened their checkbooks and paid for it. Never did a fund-raising campaign have to be initiated. No magic appeal or consultants were required. And then the church grew larger and larger.

Back then the church was a frequent part of estate giving for local families, and the Permanent Endowment Fund was often grown as individual gifts and trusts were set up to provide funding for the future of FUMC. Church leadership changed over the past forty years as more women were brought into that role, matching what was going on around the country, albeit slightly slower than the national scene.

Women were offered and excelled in leadership roles, and were also found to be most generous in financial support. I have yet to hear one of them named as a “pillar,” but that definition is no longer used contemporarily anyway. Pillars are made of some kind of clay and held together with mortar, and it all depends on the foundation as to how long and how strong it will prevail.

I first saw Freda’s impact in action ca. 1995, but she’d been at it long before that. Freda was a favorite of the town’s older generation, as she was a willing volunteer who would do anything she could for widows who might not have children immediately nearby to help out with simple tasks. I remember Frances Allen describing her at one time as “you would hear that we’d be expecting a freeze soon on the weather forecast, and you’d look out your window and see Freda wrapping your outdoor water faucets to prevent them from freezing up. She didn’t wait to be asked.

And so a long-term friendship would be cemented between generations. Freda did all these things with the love and approval of her mother, Jane, for whom she was devoted daughter and caregiver until Jane’s passing in October, 2015. Freda’s ministerial efforts were all indirect for years and she chose the people to help who had been devoted to her church all of her life.

She took ballet as a child from wonderful angel Jane Lee and Freda adored her. In her later years, she preferred functional comfort to fashion so if you haven’t known her more than 20 years, you’d have missed the beautiful outfits and matching jewelry that she always wore for church directory photographs and other special occasions. A few pictures here from past directories underscore that fact.

It was when a new senior pastor was appointed to FUMC in 1995 that would ultimately change the church forever, at least in terms that I perceive (your mileage may vary). For the first time in memory, the Methodist church was less about the changeup of ministers every few years to a new trend of allowing them to remain in place longer term. At least that is how it felt to those of us who had always heard of the process of fairly quick rotation. It was a guarantee that if you didn’t resonate with the style of one pastor, another would be along soon, so keep worshiping consistently and trust in the Lord even if you didn’t in the Bishop’s wisdom.

Early on, that newly appointed senior pastor decided he would change things up and reroute everything that once was one direction to flow another direction, his way. Early decisions and changes were well received, but one day, one decision split the congregation in half. It’s not unusual in any church to have such earth-shattering changes.

Every congregation is made up of volunteers and devoted members who believe passionately in what they believe to be true and correct. The senior pastor’s challenge is to maintain common ground among the membership so everyone still feels as though it is “their church,” when in fact it is always God’s church, subject to decisions and actions of the Bishop and her/his appointees. I say this because it would be at this point where my discussions with Freda would become less about the Houston Astros, to whom she was their #1 most devoted fan, and more about the wisdom of some of the things ongoing in our church. The discussions were always pleasant, never unpleasant, but her determination to support a path I didn’t agree with was unrelenting.

About that time some senior church ladies took me to lunch for my birthday and Freda was included. I was opening cards and Freda handed me a small package. Inside was a glass desk decoration with a quote from President Dwight D. Eisenhower. It reads:

“What counts is not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog.”

She was not forecasting purposefully, but did I ever come to see firsthand what that meant in terms of her devotion to pursuing a goal relentlessly, thoroughly, and with the kind of tenacity akin only to a bulldog unwilling to let go of a perceived invader. And yet, never was an unpleasant word spoken between us. She proceeded to rally support for her chosen path, succeeded, and prevailed. Anyone who might have doubted her abilities was “taken to school,” as the saying goes.

The amount of goodness Freda gave to FUMC Bryan over the past thirty years that I observed was virtually uncountable—there’s some you will see clearly but others (most in fact) that she did behind the scenes that most will never even know of, because that is how she operated. She preferred being behind the scenes, even if she was front and center briefly to have to do something before going back to her other pursuits.

For example, today FUMC enjoys a magnificent online and media ministry and that is thanks to Mike Holmes, Rev. David Henry, Gregg Barfield, and Freda Wood, to name just four people that I know of, though of course many others were involved. It began, the way I recall, when the then-senior pastor (ca. 1993) wanted “someone” to take photos of new members who joined the church each week, so they could be included in the weekly newsletter. Freda volunteered, went out and got a new 35mm camera and came down the aisle as church ended each week to snap the pictures.

Next, there was a need for a video ministry that occurred as the radio broadcasts of the weekly worship service were becoming less available to the homebound members of our community and, as you’d expect, Freda volunteered to be part of that team immediately.

The next thing you knew, Freda was up in the gallery loft above the back of the congregation running the board on the multimedia elements of all services, whether it was 8:30 am worship, 11 am worship, or even going to the Gym between those two services to run the media board in the 9:00 am service, known today as the Awakening Service led by Rev. Jennifer Webber.

That was what she did and she was still just as frequent a financial supporter of the church, particularly when it came to the youth of the church. Every time the church would place lilies on the altar for Easter, Freda would join with her brother Gene and sister-in-law Wanda and donate funds sufficient to give in memory of every beloved angel of yesteryear in the church as well as her beloved senior widows—often being 50% of the needed donors, to assure the youth funds would be sufficient to send every child who wanted to go to Lakeview would go to Lakeview.

[Photo, FUMC Church Directory, 2004, Freda Wood]

One of very few things that might cause Freda to leave the FUMC campus for a time would be precious trips to see her beloved Houston Astros play baseball at home. She went to as many games as she could and listened or watched all the others faithfully. She helped get plenty of church buses going that way as well, and she was the best advocate the team could have here locally.

Freda was named Media Assistant to the FUMC staff and the need for her presence became more full-time than part-time, and she loved all that she did. Whether official church staff or lifetime volunteer, Freda did anything that she could do. Even though as a child she didn't attend Lakeview church camp, as an adult she became the Registrar for the annual Methodist camp activities at Lakeview each year and brought excellent order to the registration process and did it essentially solo for many years. Her personal philanthropy had made it possible for many of our children to attend; she truly put her heart into each thing she did for her church.

Freda had the admiration of so many church members that I could name and name and name and still it would not be a complete list, because if you were a new member last week at 28th and Houston, you’d have met her and been welcomed to “your” church by her. You never saw her without a smile, even if the Astros didn’t win, because she was determined they could do it the next game. It was not the smile of a person of simplicity; rather, it was a determination to use each day to help anyone she saw in need, without being asked.

Her dogs were another part of Freda’s life’s joy. If you had her e-mail address, you know her handle, “Fredasdogs,” and her Facebook pages are overflowing with photographs of dogs—hers as well as the photos of local lost and found pets as she was always willing to help spread the word of a missing pet and, more importantly, a found pet.

Many people have known Freda Wood longer and better than I do. They know personally of her service to FUMC Bryan and appreciate her for her wisdom, sense of humor, willingness to follow up on any need for anyone she knew, and most of all her faith in God. It was not something she spoke of as much as it was her actions.

Her faith in action reflects the words of Matthew 25:40 (NIV)

“And the King will say, ‘I tell you the truth, when you did it for one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you did it for me.’”

When a dear friend shared the news of Freda’s passing with me yesterday, the very first image that came to mind was a memory of the lobby of the former College Station Medical Center. Freda was about to undergo knee surgery. Although many of us might consider that a routine procedure today, it was a rare happening in Freda’s world to be in the hospital. She was not alone; of course Wanda and Gene were there, and perhaps her nephew Tom and his wife Dana were, plus her primary doctor and longtime friend Dr. Philip Alexander (at the time on the hospital board, no less). Yet, one simply could not miss the other crowd of Methodist ministers all standing together, from her childhood pastor to her pastor of the hour, there they were. She smiled her 750-Watt smile at that sight, seeing them one and all.

If memory serves, Reverends Morris House, Carroll Fancher, Harral Dunnam, and Bob Richers, gathered in the informal collective of the lobby to assure Jesus and all of his archangels surrounded Freda with love and a genuine regard for returning her to her church world as to carry on in her ministry as unimpeded as possible.

It is with blessed assurance that I know Freda entered the kingdom of Heaven greeted by her beloved parents, her brothers Porter and John who preceded her there, and Reverends Morris House and Carroll Fancher awaiting the reunion of another in their congregations who joined them and all the now angels among those she tended to here on Earth. She leaves her funeral service to the most capable pastor, Rev. Rick Sitton, whose ministry here these many years has been blessed and enhanced by Freda’s media ministry and friendship to him and his family.

As Pastor Sitton wrote of her in his morning tribute, “Well done thou good and faithful servant.” Faithful church volunteer Rose Cates shared a copy of Freda’s father’s business card he had made upon his retirement, which gave him more time to do good works. When the man you know and love as father on Earth has “this” philosophy with him all of his life, it’s easy to see that the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. [Photos courtesy of Rose M. Cates]

Freda Jane Wood will always be remembered, uniquely for one so young, as one of the “pillars of the church” at First United Methodist in Bryan. And though she never sought acclaim for anything she did, I think she would have been pleased. Godspeed, Freda, and thank you for all that you did for those whose lives you touched.

At 103 Years Old, Mildred Still Has Spirit Left to Give, Lessons to Teach

By the time the sun grew closer to dropping from the sky on Tuesday, I’d run out of excuses for not heading up to “The Manor,” as there was only one more hour of daylight on June 5th, the day that Mildred Kennedy turned 103. A hold-out from a return visit since Christmas, I had thought up fourteen good reasons to stay at home.

I truly wanted to avoid what could be the “final” visit to my dear spiritual mentor and delightful senior friend. But, odds were going against my hiding out, because today was filled with poignant, happy, funny memories and a supreme dose of guilt if I didn’t keep my promise to her. I longed for the days, just six years ago, Birthday 2012, when Bob and Kathy Richers and I had celebrated her special day with a beautiful meal featuring Bob and Mildred's favorite food ever--chocolate.

By 2014, her birthday celebrated at The Manor showed her coping, fairly well, with her new home base and because it was not her famous Apt. 10 in Bryan, you have to imagine that anywhere but there was not going to be entirely well received. But she eventually adjusted to it and became a trooper. Never once did I hear her say, "I want to go home" or "I don't like it here." The next picture is Birthday, 2014.

As I was running the roads of Texas with a dear friend Thursday morning, on a mission to collect a beloved toddler, I began talking about Mildred, recalling having been out of town several times on Mildred’s birthday in years past but still managing to get to her “in time.” Relating that for many years after my mother's passing, my friend Donna and I would call in from wherever we were with her family and friends, sometimes from a beachside balcony. I remembered the exchange used to go, “Is it still your birthday over there?” She’d respond, “It sure is!” and so we'd sing “Happy Birthday” to her, and she’d welcome our return in person whenever it was that we got there to book her for lunch. We made sure to make the call before 10 pm her time.

Another year my longtime friend from high school, Kathy, and I treated Mildred to see Wayne Newton in concert, one of her "things she'd always wanted to do." I rented a cushy-ride Cadillac from enterprise for "the girls," and I picked up Mildred, and her dear friend, Jane Lee, and we drove to San Antonio to meet up with Kathy. These two senior troopers (that would be Mildred and Jane, ha) navigated beautifully the path to the seating in the AT&T Center and they acted younger than Kathy and I did at the concert. Make all the jokes about Wayne Newton you want, the man puts on a show every time he goes on stage. And you can't say that about all entertainers.

Every year I realized that she had enough angels in her collection, but there always seemed to be just one more that might be a new one to bring her delight. Everyone knew she loved angel figurines, so a number of her friends had kept her collection vibrant over the past 40 years. In her best days, she loved the month of June because she said it was her “birthday month.” She had so many friends from her Sunday School class and church that they all got into an unspoken queue to book her throughout the month of June to take her to lunch or dinner. Every birthday event delighted her.

Last night when I walked up the hill to the building, entered and pushed the button on the elevator, I didn’t know what I’d find but I was sure it would be a less cognizant version of my buddy compared to December. That visit had brought the reality that she really didn’t know or could not recall who I was. I was prepared for that. My courage came from my promise I’d made to her that even if she could not remember who I was, I’d always come by and reintroduce myself to her if needed and that it would not bother me if she didn’t remember me. She said, “Do you promise?” and I said, “Yes.”

So, knowing I’d be journeying on a hot-as-heck afternoon to wish her “Happy Birthday,” fully understanding ahead of time that she would neither know me or appreciate the visit did not constitute the heart full of love that I believed I should have held going in. It was duty because I’d made a promise.

Last year on ‘the day’ I'd asked a dear friend, Betsy, to go with me as we journeyed up through the byzantine labyrinth to find sleeping beauty. Even though her eyes stayed closed most of the time, when we began singing to her, she did open her eyes, caught sight of Betsy, her beloved Bible Study friend, and she beamed. No words came forth from Mildred at that time, just loving looks and smiles. Betsy and I talked to her enthusiastically and she glanced over to me as if to thank me for bringing her her present--Betsy. I nodded knowingly and smiled some more.

Last night, dinner had been over, and everyone was back in their rooms. A dear staffer reminded me of which way her room was (I was used to going to the TV area or dining room) and as I walked in I heard a voice saying “hello?” “help!” but it wasn’t Mildred’s voice. I could see quickly that she was sleeping. The tri-divided semi-circular room accommodates three residents and the voice was coming from behind another light curtain.

I have to admit that at first my mind almost tuned out the plea for “Help” for a moment as I was so intently focused on Mildred that I only had energy enough to think about caring about/for her. My first thought the person on the other side of the curtain was having a bad dream.

I waited to hear it again, just it case it was a dream, the voice came again, “Anyone out there? I need help.” So immediately, I peered behind the curtain and said, “Can I get a nurse for you?” and she said, “No, I don’t need a nurse. I just need someone to help me get my call button. It’s dropped onto the floor.” That I knew I could handle, so I went over and retrieved it. The dear senior lady with no hair atop her head shined so radiantly and joyfully with the biggest smile as she said, clearly, “I cannot believe I’d let that drop. I've got it anchored now. Thank you so much.”

Embarrassed that I’d let 20 seconds go by before responding the first time, I said, “Thank you for letting me know you were in trouble.” She said, “You’re an angel.” And I said, “No ma’am, that title belongs to the lady who’s sleeping over there,” gesturing at a snoozing Mildred. She asked, You came to see Mildred?” and I said, “Yes, it’s her birthday today and she’s sleeping right now.” I smiled and gently made my way back to Mildred.

A fast glance around the room noted the 5x7 framed photo that I’d gifted Mildred with, holding the photo of Mildred and Hazle, the friend who dreamed up for months ahead of time what she would surprise Mildred with each year (a true soul sister of the heart).

A clear plastic container from “The Bakery” with a small round cake with pink icing on it, unopened, with an enclosed plastic fork, also unopened, were placed nearby on the small desktop near her bed, June 5, 2018. How time had flown.

Then I remembered June 5, 2012, when Mildred and our mutual friend, Myrl Sims, had joined me at the 2012 American Heart Gala, where The Buckinghams and Karan Chavis and her band were performing. I was delighted to introduce her to Carl, NIck and the rest of the band, and she loved seeing them perform.

My mind raced back to when for her 100th birthday, Kathy and Bob Richers and I had met up there and we had cupcakes for Mildred, her friends at the communal dining area, and for every staff member from every floor to come by and say hello and enjoy her day. My mind raced even further back in recalling how two of her co-celebrants had already gone to their heavenly reward, Ms. Katie Fazzino Viola (d. 7/12/17), and Sr. St. Anthony, whose last name I could not recall.

Interestingly, when I went online to the newspaper's site to search for Sr. St. Anthony, I ran the usual types of spelling search and Ms. Viola’s name had come up first. Stunned, I smiled and ran the search again, and found the name of Joann San Angelo, my mother’s best friend who had been our next-door neighbor for so many years. Another reason to smile…dear ladies who’d been members of St. Anthony’s Church and who, in their lifetimes, had spent countless hours supporting their church so lovingly and faithfully and both of whom spent their final days at The Manor.

Ms. Viola was special to me, even though she never knew my name, because through the years I’d visit Mildred and she would be there at the table, I watched her progress from going from a very restricted ability to communicate and eat her meals to one visit where we had a delightful brief communication (under Mildred’s watchful and slightly jealous eye) and I was so thrilled to see her doing so well.

Each visit of mine to Mildred usually coincided with the arrival of one of Miss Katie’s darling young family members to hug her, such as on this day, loving on her and talking to her as though she could talk back. What a thrill it was to see The Manor as a place where family members were flowing in and out for everyone there. And dear Norma Henry was such an anchor to our choir at First United Methodist Church, in addition to being a delightful, beautiful lady of her own accord. The light inside Norma's heart always shined through in any conversation with her. You can't always say that about everyone.

Another gentleman resident, too, had loving family there to hug and love him. He was often around the table when we would visit Mildred (Photos from her 100th birthday, June 5, 2015).

Sr. St. Anthony, while a resident, was really a minister of her own there, talking with everyone, maintaining a very strict discipline about making sure everyone felt as they belonged there. Even though confined to a wheelchair, her verbal skills and sharp mind made you believe she was standing right before you, smiling. I finally pulled up the right online tribute for Sr. St. Anthony Chrzanak, of the OSF, and I learned that (she’d passed away in her home on 4.27.18), she’d “ministered to patients, family members and physicians” of the CHI St. Joseph Health System.

BTW, OSF is The Sisters of the Third Order of St. Francis, of East Peoria, Illinois, who minister to and who used to own and operate the hospital formerly known as St. Joseph Hospital, before eight, perhaps, name and staff changes. (Many locals will recall how Sr. Gretchen Kunz was a dynamo.)

Thinking of dynamos brought me back to Mildred, and her faithful ministry to so many at First United Methodist Church of Bryan. This coming Sunday marks the celebration of the church’s 150th year in Bryan and she won’t be there. But her presence will be felt as her beloved daughter, Camille, sings in choir and her adored son-in-law, Travis, now sits in what is still Mildred’s pew seat, whether or not Mildred is there.

In my frequent writings about Mildred, their focus is generally on my personal relationship with her. Be assured, though, that Camille is the best daughter Mildred could ever ask for and Mildred would tell that to virtually everyone, except for Camille, and Travis devoted many hours to "Mother K" with a true servant's heart. They are very dear people to me, and it's because of them that I get to "share" Mildred's life and claim her as part of "my family, too."

Mildred served our church on virtually every level of Christian servitude, not in leadership roles all the time, or even much of the time, but in caring ministries, writing cards to those who were sick or homebound, keeping up with all her Sunday School class members, anchoring the church’s prayer chain, serving our church faithfully in all funeral services. Protocol means and meant everything to Mildred. And no outsider was coming into “her” church without her having a watchful eye on what was, and was not, moved around.

She was sought after to be a full- or part-time employee of almost every funeral home in town, but she turned them all down, cheerfully, as she said her work was for the Lord, serving her church. She “worked” so many funerals and I remember when she was there for my Mom’s funeral. She wrote me the most beautiful card afterwards and said it was an honor to serve at that one.

It wasn’t much later when she told me, in one of our long evening visits on her porch at Waldenbrooke, that when it was my time to get married she would be proud to sit “in place” for my mom in the family pew. And, when the time came for the unity candle to be lit, if that was part of the ceremony I’d be going through (as if I might have had a choice, haha), she would be happy to stand in for Mom and represent her.

For over a decade now I kept her offer close in my heart and cherished it; I used to tease her that the venue could include a change to Las Vegas so she’d better be prepared to pack a bag and the look on her face at her opinion of that idea was priceless. Oh, how I loved to tease her.

As I stood there by her bedside last night, I remembered to talk her as though she could hear me. I didn’t have a lot to say but I shared a few things I thought might be relevant, and I sang happy birthday to her “her way” with “Happy birthday, God bless you,” as the end phrase instead of “Dear Mildred” and felt proud that I hadn’t bungled the notes as my emotions were starting to overrule me. My eyes filled with tears and I was mad about being human and a wimpy one at that, but I couldn’t help but hear the oxygen concentrator making an all-too-familiar painful memory of a sound in the background and the acceptance that her periods of sleep would be longer now as 103 years finally started to appear to have been taking their toll on her strength.

As I prepared to leave, I stopped back by her roommate’s section and asked if she was okay, and she said, “Well, they put me to bed and forgot to get me any water, so would you mind asking someone to bring me water?” The floor had been pretty quiet but I promised to see what I could do. I was delighted to find a dear LVN not too far into my search and she said, “Absolutely, right away.” I dropped back by to tell her that her water was en route and she said, “Thank you so much, you’re an angel.” I reassured her that I was anything but that, and said, “Happy to help. You have a good evening.”

As an afterthought I went back into Mildred’s room one more time, why I could not begin to tell you. I had no memory of intention to do that, but as I did, I could see her right eyelid open just a tad beyond sleep state and her left one less so but still she was aware of my presence, even if she could not truly see it. I sort of wanted to tell her that I'd become a Certified Life Celebrant and was officiating funeral services (not exactly following in her footsteps but it was as close as I was going to get), just to see the look on her face, but because I knew that inherently she would neither know or understand, that one day very soon, she'd get the full story and have a better view of the situation. I'm not sure she'll approve even then, but she'd love me through it, either way.

So, I talked to her a little more, repeating some of what I’d said earlier, and then I decided to sing to her one more time. Why not? At 103, you deserve as many repeats of that song as you can have, right? To my shock, surprise and delight, by the time I got to the “God bless you” part of the chorus, she hummed the last two notes, ever so gently. She opened her mouth slightly and air pushed out, forming the notes. I assure you I was not hearing things. A smile appeared on her face and her eyes went back to her sleep state.

She’d done it again. She’d turned my reluctant, fearful visit into a joyous occasion by showing me, at 103, that she can still teach, she can still receive love and she can show love. You just have to tune in to catch it. I blew her a kiss, as I always did leaving her place at Waldenbrooke. She'd walk to her back porch window and watch me to my car to make sure I got there safely and then as I'd get in my car, I'd always look up and blow her kisses and she blew them back right to me. That's how we said goodbye each time and I can't drive down Memorial Drive without wanting to blow a kiss to someone who is not Mildred who now occupies her apartment.

I smiled as I left and walked effortlessly down the hall, having been pained as I was walking in. Exiting the building I was convinced that her days here on Earth remain few. Not because of anything specific, just the acceptance that given the circumstances and my experience in being with and around seniors being one of my most favorite pastimes, it’s an educated hunch.

Her final lesson to me was this: Don’t fear a point in life when there is nothing more you can do for someone. There’s always something you can do. Just be there. That’s it. God, or the spirit of goodness, or the goodness of the universe’s spirit, depending on your faith construct, will handle the rest. Just, if you can, be there. It’s the best thing you can do, to show love to another person. Love lives forever.

EPILOGUE

On Friday afternoon, June 8, my phone rang. It was Camille, Mildred's daughter, telling me that Mildred had lived to age 103 and one day. I asked, "You mean she passed away on Wednesday?" She continued, "It was at 1:10 pm." I'd hit "Publish" on my post just twelve minutes later that same day. I felt I would be updating my story soon, but it was a profound feeling to know she'd finished her story before I'd completed mine. I knew I would add one more photo to this story, and waited per Camille's wishes until Monday when her official notice would appear in the newspaper. It just went live online.

When I was getting ready to leave Mildred's apartment at Waldenbrooke several years ago, I was in the living room, heading for her front door, when I saw this image. I said, "Stay right there!" and she did. I've saved this one until it was the proper time. All is right with the world. Once again, Mildred has the last word.