Catherine

I like old people. Maybe you didn't know that.  Old people like me too, I think, and I can only imagine why.  When I was a kid I spent about as much time thinking about old people as probably most kids do, if by that you mean it was only to assess that they liked me best.  My grandparents were the sort of old people you'd want to know so it was always worth the investment to spend a weekend or afternoon with them. I think that's where I get it from.  The pay off was always the stories. Why does it always seem like older people had bigger lives than we do?  My grandfather was even declared dead once because he went missing for 7 years (it was deliberate).  I'm not sure I know anyone with a life as big as that generation was capable of producing.

Anyway, this week a dear friend died and now I am thinking about being old and how that changes how we view death.  My friend Catherine was 98 years old and she was tired.  She never complained about it, but I'm sure she was weary of being without her husband Milton. I'm sure she was weary of the effort it takes to keep moving your arms and legs and brain after 98 years and one time she said the loss of independence was not a pleasant part of being old.  When you're my age, you only hope that people you love don't leave you, but when you're 98 maybe you're wishing you could go with them.

Catherine told me more than once that if she died she was ready.  I didn't think I was, but she was.  I really admired how she handled aging.  Even before she moved last year she'd call and ask me to take her to the gym a couple of days a week.  Talk about strength!  She'd had one hip replaced simply because she'd just worn it out, but before that it was her only hospital stay besides childbirth.  She didn't mind driving some places, like to the Baptist church to do her job once a week, but she'd gotten to the age where she didn't trust herself on the busier streets. She took pleasure in doing things the right way so her existence was tidy and her work was thorough and precise. I think being in your 90's and not being dependent on a myriad of drugs and nurses is a thing I'd like to aspire to, but it turns out you have to start a lot earlier if that's your goal.

During her 98 years, my friend Catherine worked and raised children and participated in church and schools and the lives of neighbors and even strangers in Africa.  She helped to start the school Olivia attends and she liked hearing me say how much we love that little school. She and Milton even helped to start the pre-school so many of our friends here attend.  Her whole life was one of giving.  As a student and teacher at Berry, she saw the same inscription on the Ford auditorium wall that I see - the words that say, "Not to be ministered unto, but to minister." From the stories she told me and from the ones I've heard about her, she lived that.

A lot of times Catherine wouldn't ask if she needed something.  She believed it was a bother to me to be driving an old woman around, but I learned recently that she'd told her daughter she knew I was really her friend.  My friendship with her had never been an obligation to me - the payoff was her positive perspective, her presence. She'd seen so many things that she could say with great confidence that anything I was concerned about would turn out all right.  I believed her because, after 90 something years, you have to believe she knew what she was talking about. I was the lucky one.

The last 3 or 4 years, every time I asked how she was, she'd always respond with, "Well, I'm still upright."  Some days she seemed a little disappointed by that. Now please don't get me wrong, I think she lived fully every day that she was given and she lived those days with gratitude, but it's hard to say that it's a bad thing for Catherine McDonald, faithful, diligent, kind Catherine, to finally get some rest.