“Set your watch. Time is not yours, but oh this life, it is. And it’s down to you, how you choose to live. This is the gift my dying will give.”
— Donna Ashworth
The sun rises, and we believe we are in charge of our own life, jotting notes on a calendar the reassurance of a semblance of control.
And then comes the day we are reminded, in the toughest way possible, that we aren’t in charge of this life.
When I first met the big family who would become my in-laws, one smiling face stood out. Perhaps because she was fairly new to the crew, I thought, she wanted me to feel the welcoming committee in a big way. I would later learn this was the essence of my sister-in-law Mary — always warm, always welcoming.
Mary grew up in an entirely opposite type of family than I had, but still we connected from the start. We were born the same year, just a few months apart, Mary into a big Catholic family in Cleveland. My life revolved around dairy farming from the moment I was old enough to carry a bucket. Mary knew the city of Cleveland like the back of her hand, and her devotion to Cleveland Indians baseball endeared her to the Sutherlands, and most of all to the man she would marry, my husband’s younger brother Terry.
We laughed through those early years, finding our way as new mothers, attempting to balance work and home, joyful days and frenetic times. Mary’s father had passed away when she was a toddler; my dad adored Mary and accepted her homemade bread and rolls as the most special gift anyone could possibly give. Terry and Mary never missed a year of sending family pictures and Christmas cards to my parents. Dad said, “Mary, you are daughter #5!”
We leaned on each other through the loss of my dad and then both of our in-laws, and Mary’s mother and brother. There were such happy times, too, welcoming grandbabies, celebrating retirements and enjoying vacations. A cruise and a trip to Europe with friends earlier this year was pure joy for Terry and Mary. She sparkled as she shared vacation stories.
One day everything was vibrant, and “practically perfect Mary,” as her daughter Kelly describes her, didn’t want to worry anyone when she suddenly had an episode of double vision, unsteadiness. A nurse friend noticed, and a September Sunday trip to the ER in their hometown of Findlay ended in a squad run to The James Center in Columbus after a brain mass appeared on a scan.
While determining which neurosurgeon would drain and remove the large brain aneurysm, Mary and Terry went back home and welcomed the birth of a tiny grandson. Mary wore a patch over one eye, enjoyed company and welcomed all the prayers. “I feel great!” Mary said as she hugged me, her smile as high-wattage as ever.
Terry and Mary hosted their Monday night Bible study group, wrapping up the evening in their kitchen, one week before surgery was scheduled in Memphis. While talking with friends, Mary collapsed.
In our last conversation, Mary told me she woke up each morning since the diagnosis, saying a prayer of gratitude for one more day.
We should all live this way, Mary’s joyful, loving, grateful way: sparkle and shine, seeing the best, helping the rest, lighting the way through the days that are given.
