I first met Dorothy in the autumn of 2005. She came into church leaning on two crutches, and sat in the very back pew. She took out a worn, faded prayer book, and leaned forward silently in prayer, as her knees seemed not to support her too well. After a couple of Sunday services she didn’t return to church so, as I generally do, I found her phone number and address, and visited her, bringing sacrament and sharing fellowship. I never imagined this would be the start of such a long and close friendship.
I visited her almost every month until April of 2021. I would sit and listen to her talk about her family, her neighbours, her aches and pains, her hopes and dreams. She was from Blackhead, on the road to Cape Spear, the eldest of eight. Her son had died at eighteen and his organs were donated, and she became friends with the recipient of one of his organs.
Dorothy was feisty, and challenged me on many things. She was a traditionalist, she was deeply caring and compassionate. She had a sharp tongue and a quick wit; she refused to call me David except on her most vulnerable days — instead she called me Longshanks.
Sometimes in winter I arrived to find the entrance to her small apartment blocked by deep snow. I’d find a way to push through the berm and shovel away whatever snow she couldn’t move herself.
During our sixteen-year relationship, Dorothy was admitted to hospital four times, and it seemed like every time I turned up at her hospital bedside I found her engaged in an antagonistic conversation with medical staff, as she laid out in no uncertain terms her needs, her demands, and even sometimes their alleged incompetence.
We grew closer over the years, and I received a card here and there, sometimes a bottle of wine, or a few sweets. She always insisted on preparing me something to eat when I visited, even if I’d just had lunch.
Over this time, others learned about our friendship. My office administrator was particularly enamoured with my nickname, and found every opportunity to chat with Dorothy on the phone while booking our pastoral visits. I met her sister, her close friends, and her daughter. I learned about her childhood, her marriage, her grief and her pain.
My role in ministering to Dorothy, I realized, was to accompany her as a pastor, and as a friend. On one particular day I discovered she had fallen down, and I helped call paramedics and sat beside her as we waited, so she could feel reassured that she was not alone.
I realized that part of my role as Dorothy’s pastor and friend was to pass on the love that I have received from the Holy One, and be present in her times of turmoil. I tried to bring her peace in times of uncertainty, and to offer perspectives of joy and wonder in the face of her pain, grief, or angst.
My journey with Dorothy ended abruptly when, in the course of my separation and divorce, I had to step away from my role as her pastor and priest. When she died, after living 88 full years, I could not officiate at her funeral. I grieve her today, on this, her birthday, and would want her to know she has often been in my thoughts wherever I turn.
I live in the hope that she understands, and she forgives me.
I live in the hope that one day our souls will meet again.
Blessings, David
