A few years ago, my husband and I met with an attorney to write our will. Much of the language was boilerplate, gleaned from decades of case law. The most agonizing part of the exercise was deciding who would take care of our children if we died unexpectedly.
Life experience has taught me how important it is to nail down the details. Two of my cousins were orphaned after their mother died of leukemia and their father died in a boating mishap a couple of years later. There was no will or orderly succession. Instead, there were weeks of anxiety and soul-searching on the part of family members before an uncle, then a newlywed, welcomed them into his home.
I got to thinking about the gravity of this responsibility when my mother told me that her long-time friend, Fern, had died Thanksgiving morning. When Fern's niece, Edna, died in a car crash in 1960, Fern agreed to help the father raise her children, Ricky and Cindy. Cindy was mentally disabled and her condition was worsened by injuries suffered in the same automobile accident that killed her mother.
Although other family members assumed responsibility for the children initially, Fern assumed a lifetime commitment to Cindy. It wasn't until I had my own children that I fully understood what an awesome responsibility she had inherited. And Fern had the added challenge of raising a child with disabilities at a time when there was no federal law that required public schools to provide special-education services.
Cindy's father, Reuben, saw to it that Cindy attended a school for the disabled that offered classes until age 16. After that, she lived at home with Fern and Reuben. Cindy would never be self-sufficient, but Fern saw to it that she learned to do many things on her own. Cindy was well-mannered and loving but functioned on the level of a very young child.
When my grandmother, mother and I would visit, Cindy loved to be nearby. The first times I saw her, she struck me as odd. She had short, cropped hair and a wild look in her eyes. Sometimes she would gently tug on my curls to watch them spring back into place. At first, she frightened me. Over time, I began to accept Cindy's differences, but it would be many years later until I understood the nature of her disability.
And it would be several years after that when I would understand how remarkably selfless Fern had been. How different their lives would have been if she had said, "I'm sorry. I can't help raise these children."
Perhaps their father would have risen to the occasion and reared them on his own. Maybe he would have been so overwhelmed that Cindy would have ended up in an institution or sent to live with another family member who wasn't as nurturing as Fern.
Of course, the story never took that turn. Fern honored her niece's memory by helping their father raise the children. I didn't recognize it at the time, but my contact with Fern taught me a powerful lesson about keeping one's word regardless of the hardship.
The last time I saw Fern was the day of my grandmother's funeral. My mother, my aunt and a few cousins and friends were gathered around her kitchen table. I was a jumble of emotions. I felt guilty that my grandmother had never seen my then-infant daughter. I was relieved that from the time she was diagnosed with cancer she lived only a couple weeks. I was worried about my grandfather, who was heartbroken by her death.
Yet, sitting in Fern's kitchen, I felt an overwhelming sense of peace. Her kitchen was always a welcoming place. It was warm and always smelled of good things to eat. Even on the occasion of my grandmother's funeral, there was a buoyancy about the place.
All these years, Fern's kitchen had been an emotional lifeboat — primarily for her, but for the others who visited as well. It was a safe place for Fern and those in her circle to gossip, vent and toss their heads back to laugh and, occasionally, cry. When my grandmother died, Fern's kitchen was the perfect place for me to get my bearings and come to grips with my loss.
Fern died in a nursing home about 25 miles from her home. It seemed strange to me that a woman so selfless would leave this world so quietly. I thought surely the earth would tremble to announce her passing.
She was buried in a small rural cemetery after a brief graveside service. Although about 150 people attended the rites, it hardly seemed an appropriate send-off for someone who had given so much of herself to others, particularly Cindy. Then again, Fern didn't do it for the recognition. She did it because she had an enormous capacity to love and give.
I am again a twist of emotions. I am relieved that Fern is now free of her earthly obligations and the arthritis that pained her and robbed her of her mobility. My faith teaches me that she is in a better place, but I can't help but wonder how Cindy will cope without her.
Although she lived far away and it has been several years since I last saw her, Fern's death causes me to yearn for the fellowship that took place in her kitchen and be grateful for her example of selflessness.
Marjorie Cortez is a Deseret News editorial writer. E-mail her at marjorie@desnews.com.