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Today we remembered our dear sweet Dorothy at the Catholic Mass and Memorial service that she planned herself.  Today, we remembered her for the kind, loving, and the little-bit-of-fire lady that she was.

Dorothy was ninety-nine and a half years old.  She did not have dementia.  In fact, she largely cared for her own needs until she became ill with pneumonia and passed from this life.

An Iowa girl who moved to Colorado, as she said, to set her own course with her husband and twin sons.

Dorothy did not ask for much.  But she was sure happy when we came to chat and clean her small refrigerator because her macular degeneration made it impossible for her to keep that refrigerator to her standard.  She was happy when we vacuumed the floor of her small assisted living room, because she liked her room clean, and her eyes, back, and legs made vacuuming tough.  She liked it when I would trim her soft-as-a-baby-bird’s-feathers hair so that it would not stick out under the wigs she had worn for decades.

She was happy when we trimmed her fingernails, sat with her, and read her birthday cards or devotionals to her, and listened as she shared stories about her days as a young mom and a young wife and those precious years enjoying her grandkids.  She was happy when we plucked her chin hairs because being old did not mean that she did not care about looking her best.

What she treasured most was her people, her family, and her friends.  I was lucky to be one she called a friend.

I agree with what her priest said of Dorothy today: “She arrives in heaven as our gift to God.”

Thank you, Dorothy, for loving me and letting me love you.

With love,

Jill