As is God's way, and in His Mercy, the Lord sometimes sends smiling angels in the form of human beings when we most need them. And so He sent Nell to be a bright light for me.
Henry and Nell were newlyweds when I moved to Lindsay, the sleepy little Texas town built around St. Peter's Catholic Church. My adjustment to the move had been a painful one. There were a couple of people who were very vocal about not welcoming me to the community and because of that, I took a defensive stance towards the whole town, choosing instead to feel alone even in a crowd.
At a time when I felt like a complete outsider, Nell always made it a point to stop and talk, to offer her particular form of smiling welcome.
I'm told that Henry, a welder by profession, was in his mid-40s when they married. Always seeming to wear a sweet smile, Nell, wife of the burly blacksmith, was the first person this then-confused-Protestant girl had ever met who'd actually joined the Catholic Church. I knew lots of people who'd left Rome, but had never actually given any consideration to the fact that there were those who chose to join. But everything about Nell spoke Christ to me.
Her example served as a catalyst to the loving effect of my beloved Albert's confidence in his religion. About a year later I crossed the Tiber, accepted into Holy Mother Church in that same parish. Then I married my sweetheart, and life marched on, including a growing family and, subsequently, a move away from my beloved St. Peter's.
As the years sped by, we often returned to Lindsay, which, because of Nell and the many other wonderful people (after I finally gave 'em a chance) still feels like home. Many times during those visits I'd run into Nell, always finding myself cheered anew by her smile and peaceful spirit.
It had been almost twenty years since I first met her when one Sunday afternoon I got a phone call from a friend reporting that Henry had died suddenly the night before.
Evidently he'd been very ill for quite some time and Nell had struggled with the increasing difficulty of taking care of her mountain of a husband. That Saturday evening he'd felt particularly unwell, but wanted to go to 7:00 Mass anyway. She tried to talk him into waiting until 10:00 the next morning so that maybe he'd feel better, but to no avail.
Henry and Nell were seated in one of the back pews at St. Peter's, when, just as Father Ron began the procession to start Mass, Henry had a massive heart attack. Volunteer EMS personnel also in attendance began to work on him and Father Ron administered Last Rites, but Henry never regained a pulse.
That night, he was given the particular blessing of sitting in the church, waiting for our Lord and Savior in the Eucharist, when God called him home.
It gives new meaning to “an attended death.”
His body was brought back to St. Peter's two nights later for the Holy Rosary and visitation. The church was full as voices rose in angelic, prayerful unison, and, while sad and almost unimaginably difficult for Nell, all seemed so peaceful. Afterward my husband and I joined the line of mourners processing towards the front of the church to speak our feeble words of comfort to the grieving, but nevertheless smiling, Nell.
Henry's body lay in state at the end of the aisle and I found myself surprised that he didn't look like I remembered, and I realized just how sick he must have been. But there was little time for such thoughts as it quickly became my turn to give Nell a hug. But somehow, instead of extending words of consolation, I felt compelled to tell her of the role she played in my journey home to Rome. Quietly I leaned over and whispered in her ear, “You're part of the reason I'm a Catholic, Nell.”
Her sister took my hand and, turning to us both said, “see Nell, you have helped somebody.”
Yup, Nell. You have.
And may the Lord and Father of all grant you peace and consolation in your sorrow, my friend. May God shine His perpetual light on your Henry the same way your smile has always pointed me towards His light.
Copyright 2003 Jackie Zimmerer
