“You can do this.”

from Cordelia

She called me kiddo. She towered over me, but didn’t intimidate me. I know my way around words and she respected that. We spent deeply meaningful time together in many small group settings:

• A workshop for those considering becoming pastoral care associates, where she reflected that, the older she got, the more she understood the need to continuously learn and relearn the same damn hard things about oneself.

• The committee for then-intern minister Wendy Bartel (I believe Wendy sent you a photo of our group: Michael Wilson, me, Charles Dymond, and Rae DuFore), where I impressed her with my writing and editing abilities (I was so proud to have done so). During one of our meetings, she called me beautiful and, like a jerk, I spat back, “You need to clean your glasses”. True to form, Lillian shrugged it off. I then managed to take a breath, put both feet flat on the floor, and say, “Thank you”.

• The monthly writing circle that she led, where I was given space to reflect at length about my daughter Teodora’s stillbirth after a healthy, uneventful, full-term pregnancy. She shared the time that she was carrying something awkward and heavy (maybe a microwave?) and then dropped it. It broke and made a mess (and maybe hurt her foot) and she was So Angry with Gordon because it was all his fault and never would have happened if he hadn’t died. It was such a sad time and we did so much laughing. Lillian was not daunted by the fullness of grief.

• When I was in graduate school and struggling with the workload and the commute, and crying every Sunday at church, she told me that anyone could do anything for two years. “This isn’t going to be for forever. You can do this.” I told her to F herself and cried anyway, but it felt different. Somehow more bearable.

I was really moved by how, I dunno, united? the three of you seemed, and not only in honoring her wishes for her memorial. It was a gift to see what was possible.

Wishing you peace,
Cordelia (Leoncio)