It feels impossible to condense Lauree into words—her vibrancy, her expansive spirit, her utter delight in life. Everything about Lauree was unique, starting with her name (accent on the second syllable, which is pronounced to rhyme with tree). She lived simply and richly, delighting in the beauty of nature, savoring complexity, and finding joy in those whose paths she crossed. Life had mellowed her into a welcoming presence that drew others to her. Her smile made me want to be its recipient, and her laugh drew me like a magnet.

Now she is gone, at least her physical presence. But my mind is full of memories and my heart continues to feel her love. I’ve tried, ever since the day after she died, to write about her, but I find myself drowning in words, never the right ones, too many or not enough, overblown superlatives or inadequate understatements.

I’ll simply attempt a few brief memories. That will have to do.

• May 6, 2012, a spring Sunday morning. I had impulsively invited Lauree and her brother to our house for lunch. Even though it is cool and cloudy we eat on the patio under our sheltering oak tree. Lauree, fixes her eyes on me and asks what I want to do with my retirement. Before long she has coaxed me into talking about my somewhat ambivalent desire to write and to be part of a writing group. Lauree too wants to write. I, who usually pad my ambivalence with a lot of deliberation, assume that this is pleasant conversation, but not Lauree. Without further ado she says, “Let’s do it!”

That was the beginning of a unique writing group that still exists. Dana, who was on the pastoral staff at church joined us to make a group of three—Lauree in her upper 70s, me in my mid-60s, and Dana in her 30s. Later Cathy, a former pastoral counselor in her 50s, became a part of our group. Four seminary-type women representing four decades, spanning two generations and multiple denominations.

• The four of us sit in my living room, Lauree on the sofa across from me. I talk about my current piece of writing, and she listens–with her full self. She looks at me, her eyes alive with engagement. Her hands gracefully aid her speech. She responds, “Kathie, I like how you . . . . She has heard what I am trying to express, both what I have written but also what lies below my words, what I have not yet fully recognized or articulated.  And, as always, she says, “I want to hear more about that.” I feel whole in her presence—heard, seen, not only accepted, but welcomed. 

• Then it is her turn. I have read her piece ahead of time, as we all do. It is dense and comes from a completely new perspective, even though it is a familiar biblical story. As she speaks about it, I struggle to keep up. Lauree’s vast mind leads her writing down tricky paths that I scramble to follow. I suggest a simpler wording, but, no, that won’t do. I have just bumped into her stubborn streak. She listens with care but is not willing to relinquish her words. In addition, she has little patience for overly crafting sentences and refining punctuation. It is juicy, ripe ideas she is after. And these she has by the basketfuls.

Enter: expanded geography. Over time a number of us move, and, in response, our gatherings spread out to new places—we alternate between Northern Virginia, Durham, NC, and a midway point at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts (VMFA ) in Richmond.

• Lunch on the deck of the VMFA next to the lily pads and its metal “red reeds.” Even before we can begin our pre-lunch conversation, Lauree opens her bag and lays out several persimmons from her trees, along with a knife for cutting them. She pulls out a napkin and begins cutting slices for us, commenting on the state of her crop. I’ve never eaten persimmon before and immediately fall in love with its crunchy sweetness. I had thought persimmons were bitter! (some varieties are, but not Lauree’s!)

In Durham, I get to visit Lauree in her home for the first of many times.

• Imagine a virtual tour: The camera focuses in on a modest house in a modest neighborhood, but hers is unlike any of its neighbors. The front “yard” contains several fig trees as well as other plants, many of which Lauree comments on. The camera moves into a glassed-in front porch, best characterized as a slightly overgrown greenhouse. Next comes the living room with its casual sofa and chairs, wall hangings from Central America, small clay and wooden figures, and a bookcase full of books. The kitchen looks well-used, arranged for convenience but also inviting. Here we are surrounded with simple beauty and delectable food—fig bread or persimmon bread—Lauree can’t give the recipe because she just puts in what she has—cheeses, crackers, an open wine bottle. The plates may not match but who cares? It’s the food, the love, the conversation that makes us want to linger.

Our monthly (or bimonthly) meetings do not give us the time we want to talk about our collective interests and full lives. This leads us to plan a three-day retreat at an Airbnb. The retreat becomes a yearly event with us gathering at various places in Virginia and North Carolina. These times together cement our relationships and become one of the highlights of each year. We offer each other food for body and spirit.

• Buchannan, Virginia, down an unpaved road, at an old farmhouse with amenities the farmer never would have dreamed of! Lauree is making our dinner, preparing each plate individually—a baked filet of fish, strips of red roasted pepper and yellow squash, and something green? Why didn’t I take the picture it deserved? In addition to the meal she prepares us, she has tucked in other treats—a customary block of Jarlsberg cheese, whatever fruit bread she has baked, whatever fruit spread she has stowed away for such an occasion, dilly beans she has recently canned, wine, and more.

• Durham—we come assuming that Lauree would be able to join us each day, although she might want to spend the nights in her own bed. We don’t understand how weak she actually is. In the past she has taken a nap sometimes while we do a walk or chooses to remain sitting while we explore a new area, but when it came to our together time, she was at the heart of it. It’s true that she is at the heart of this retreat too, but in a different way. We drive to her apartment and find her sitting on her bed talking with her son and a nurse friend. To get from her bed to a wheelchair she needs help, and then help from the wheelchair to a sofa. Lauree is now in hospice and working with a Death Doula. She is beginning the process of letting go of this life. “It’s okay,” she tells us, and I believe her, but it isn’t okay with me. We don’t stay long—she is tired. Back at our house, the evening meal is more quiet than usual, each of us distracted by our own thoughts and emotions.

Now is the time I am supposed to say, rest in peace, dear friend, but instead I will say that I hope you are discovering aliveness in a new dimension, that your insatiable curiosity continues to grapple with new understandings, and that there is joy everywhere.