In Memory of Andy

In Memoriam

My mother died too soon, leaving me at the end of 7^th grade and my sister pregnant with her first child. Fortunately, she left us a stand-in: her best friend and younger sister, Andrea. Andy herself had been orphaned at 16, just as she began her Senior year at Sidwell Friends. She and her husband Roger folded us into their crew of six children and, in due course, became beloved grandparents to our kids.

When Roger died, Andy, then in her late 70’s, set about restructuring her life. At 80, she discovered a new passion and talent: poetry. It gave her great joy. And to her surprise, she went on to win recognitions. Her poetry, her kids, grandkids, great-grandkids, her church, her friends, her books, leading various volunteer activities, teaching courses in William and Mary’s program for Senior Citizens filled her last decade. Until a few months ago when the ovarian cancer she had had for over 2 years began relentlessly to sap her strength, it was hard to connect to Andy with a phone call. She was never home. After 9:30 pm was your best bet.

 Two weeks ago, I spent the weekend in Williamsburg with Andy. She called and told me she needed company and I was happy to oblige.. Except for the round the clock presence of a nurse’s aide, it was a pretty typical visit. Andy wanted to know exactly how and what each of us was doing, since last we’d talked, and in turn updated me on various family members. We talked about current events, politics, family history, and the class she planned to teach on the journals of Anne Morrow Lindbergh. As always, her stories made me laugh. We spent 3 hours straight looking at family pictures. Driving home, I thought about how fortunate I was to have Andy as a surrogate parent and dearest friend and the immensity of the hole in my life her death would leave.

And so it has.

Andy’s poems were inspired by many things. This one flowed from scripture:

REGRETS

Lamentations 3:22-23  It is of the Lord's mercies that we are not consumed, because His compassions fail not. They are new every morning:

Words spoken in haste.

The word not spoken.

All we wished erased.

Promises broken

Faith we betrayed

Love unexpressed

Commitment never made

Kind acts repressed,

Vanish when the light

of Love dawns afresh 

upon the heart’s blight.

We are morning blessed.

Andrea Christensen Rawson