Dear Sallie,

I miss you.

I know I’m not the only one who misses you; you left a big hole in the lives of a lot of us, and in our church. While I’ve missed you since you died, I confess I’ve been thinking about you extra these past weeks as the anniversary of your death is approaching.

I don’t have to tell you that the rhythm of life and death is a normal part of the work of the pastor, so, even though you were indisputably amazing, I’m a little surprised at how much your absence tugs at my heart. I have sat at many deathbeds and preached many memorial services and missed many people. But whenever your memory springs to mind the tears always follow.

And I do remember you.

Often.

I remember you every time I walk into my office, sit at my desk, and see on the office wall in my direct line of vision your drawing you called “Church Ladies Whispering”. In the hardest days of my learning to be a leader and a pastor you showed up one day at my office with that drawing. I don’t recall your saying all that much about it, just something like, “This is for you to look at and laugh when you know they’re talking about you. And remember: there are a lot of people who love you and appreciate your leadership.” When I think about that I miss you so much.

And I always miss you on the days that two-year-old Lucy runs into my office—she’s talking a lot now and knows right where the candy jar is on my bookshelf. I know she won’t remember all the times her mom took her to visit you, but when I look at her little face I remember how much you loved her visits and how your playful, creative approach to life made Calvary’s kids feel like you were one of them. I remember the night I noticed this quality of yours. It was the Christmas Eve Victor dressed up as a wise man in the nativity play in an elaborate costume you invented for him. The littlest angels could tell you were as excited as they were, and it was a true Calvary moment when Victor, Nancy Renfrow and Truman Robinson all traipsed down the aisle—the strangest collection of wise men ever. And toward the end, when you were so sick and couldn’t come to church anymore, all the kids were very serious about writing cards so you wouldn’t feel lonely stuck at home. I hope you know they loved you; they certainly knew you loved them. I do miss you whenever I see them running around the Fellowship Hall, experiencing church as a place where people love and welcome them.

And I am missing you these days every morning when I hook your silver earrings on my ears. They’re the silver hoops you used to wear a lot—not typical, normal hoops, because we all know you would never wear anything that wasn’t unusual, artsy, classy, and cool. Ever. When Victor came into my office a few weeks ago and gave them to me, I cried. “These were my darling’s,” he said. “She always had the best taste.” Whenever I think of you I think of you wearing these earrings—maybe I always secretly wanted to be as classy as you were. So I am having trouble NOT wearing them every morning. Not only do I love how they look (why can’t I ever look that classy on my own?), they make me feel like you are right here, standing next to me, just smiling approvingly or saying something like you always used to after worship, “Well, I didn’t think you could preach a sermon that would touch me more deeply than the last time, but you did it again. Keep it up, gal!”

And when I see Victor I miss you. He’s doing so well; you’d be proud of him. He says he was so lucky to have 66 years with the most wonderful gal—he only wishes it didn’t have to end so soon. I always saw you two together, joined at the hip, leading Downtown Social Club or picking me up to take me to lunch at a fancy French restaurant because somebody needs to take the pastor out every once in awhile, you would say to me. Victor says the nights are long and things get lonely for him sometimes. He says he wishes he had someone to talk to in the evenings, to dream up plans to see if Tom Sietsema’s latest restaurant review in the Post is really on the money this time or not. We’re trying to fill the void just a little bit (don’t even ask about his adventures doing laundry!), but nobody will ever replace you.

Yes, he misses you but, as you would expect, he’s okay. Really. His sadness always seems tempered by his deep love for you and his almost incredulous gratitude that he was the lucky guy who got to spend all those years with you. He really says stuff like that—all the time. It makes all the women around here utterly wistful, I’ll tell you. And I wish I could bear grief the way he does; you gave him such a gift in your life together. And whenever I see Victor and hear his cheery memories of you, I miss you even more.

And of course I miss you when I think about one of the last visits we had. You were in bed, in a lot of pain, but glowing (as ever). Victor gave me a few minutes to talk alone with you and you would have thought I was dying, not you. In opposition to every pastoral care lesson I ever learned, I cried and cried and cried, while you comforted me and said things like, “Here, have a Kleenex”. You also said, “Thank you for giving me back my church,” which we both knew referred to the new life at Calvary, and which you knew as well as I did was not something I was completely responsible for. And then I said, “Sallie, look back at this life you lived. You did it so well!”

“I did, didn’t I?” you said.

You did, Sallie. You did that.

And for all of these reasons and more, I miss you.

Love,

Amy