Remembering a Saintly Character

I went to a friend’s celebration of life recently. Marcia was truly a wonderful woman who welcomed me into her home, first as a childhood friend of her daughter, and later as a spiritual mentee. Most of my childhood revolved around church.  Marcia was a constant presence there. She was a deaconess, organized the talent shows, helped at VBS and was a prayer warrior, who led the prayer chain for decades. 

When my sister was mauled by a liger the first day of spring break 1992, Marcia volunteered to take care of me for the rest of the week, so I wouldn’t be stuck in a hospital waiting room . She had a habit of adopting strays—both animals and people—welcoming them into her home without judgement. She loved being a mother, mothering anyone she sensed needed extra attention. 

At the service, time was allotted for friends to speak. Person after person stood and spoke from their heart telling how Marcia had impacted their lives. The prayer warrior element was almost universally mentioned by the church crowd while her mothering qualities were touted by friends of her girls. Occasionally people would speak about her joy through the many tragedies that dusted her life, and how inspirational her faith had been. Listening to people share, I was struck by how one dimensional and holy she sounded; one might think Marcia a modern saint. 

She was. But, she was more than her faith, more than her qualifiers as “mom”, “wife”, and “prayer warrior”. 

 I tend to think of people and their lives in literary frameworks.  Marcia was no different. If I were writing Marcia’s story, it would be a Christian fiction, community comedy . The arena would be small—Aims, Oregon where she lived most of her adult life, went to church, raised her children. The cast of characters would be large, because Marcia opened her doors to everyone. 

Marcia had a wicked sense of humor and a radiant smile. Motherhood changed her petite figure. She exuded feminine grace.  She loved puzzles, reading and Oreo cookies. She hated clutter but lived with it as patiently as she could. Marcia had a complicated relationship with the deep well of her grief. I think she had unfulfilled dreams: though, I often got the feeling she had come to peace with them. 

In her version of this made up book, I’m sure Marcia would want her relationship with her daughters to be the central narrative arc, but as the tension there was fairly mundane,  I would likely write them as an “us against the world” kind of team who gets a B plot adventure arc— Marcia working to solve the problems her girls bring to her as she ferries them about their daily lives in her favorite colored car. 

The A plot of my version of Marcia’s story would center on the loss of her youngest daughter in a tragic beach accident. Not the event itself, but the aftermath when faith and grief clashed. When every breath felt like a betrayal to the child gone too soon. Tonally it clashes with the rest of the story, taking the reader from brightly lit Christmas trees and church social politics to greyscale ashes of a burned house and guttural depression—a rending of the soul. Yet Marcia survived because she had a heart big enough to house her grief and faith side by side in tentative stasis. 

I don’t know how I would wrap up Marcia’s story. She finished her days surrounded by loved ones, revered by her little community who later gathered to burst the seams of her beloved church in her honor. But is that enough of a satisfactory ending? I think it would be for Marcia.