She was a lot of really awesome things rolled up into one little fireball of a woman. She was outspoken, friendly, kind, energetic and enthusiastic. She loved with a kind of fierceness that drew people to her. Sometimes she caught you off-guard with her humor or her candor. If she told you that you did a good job, you knew you did a good job. If she called you out about something, she was usually right. I suppose her ability to hone in to the motives and behaviors of others didn't always sit well with some but she was who she was, and for that she made no apologies. Her feelings were never worn on her sleeve. She could take a ribbing with the best of them, shirking off even jokes made at her expense, sometimes to an almost too-personal degree. Only once can I recall that she sat across from me after everyone left and told me about someone who had inadvertently hurt her feelings. She agonized over what to do about it and eventually decided she would call that person up and talk it out. The next day she came in looking as though a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She had gone home the day before and called her friend. She let that person know that her feelings were hurt, and as she suspected, her friend felt terrible for the oversight and apologized profusely.
Bea Cawley was not a woman who left people wondering what she thought or how she felt. We were always aware of where we stood with her and I found a warm comfort in that. Even on days when she didn't feel her best, she would show up at Senior Action in that little burgundy Saturn, pitter patter her way in the door and muster up a smile for everyone. She loved life like no one else I've ever known. She didn't sit around and feel lonely, she called friends to come over and eat, or play games or go to dinner somewhere. She invited people to come to Senior Action as though she were our appointed Welcoming Committee. She made sure everyone knew about Keenagers dinners and game days at church. The more people in her life, the merrier she was. What is life after all, if we don't share it with other people? It was easy to love her, even if you didn't always agree with her. She embraced us all for who we were regardless of whether we always held the same beliefs about everything. She let us be who we were and she took comfort in being herself. Of course, that didn't mean she wouldn't try to convince anyone to change their ways...but she loved you, regardless.
Bea faithfully visited her friends when they were sick or down. She made a point to call and check on them, bring them food or ask what they needed. Her joy was in feeding others--Frogmore Stew was her specialty. I regret that I never got to share it with her.
As I listened to her family talk about her today, I could hear hints of what seemed like hurt in their
voices. Maybe a little lingering bitterness of the flavor that exists in all families to some degree. I could sense that her opinions and ideas weren't always welcomed or met with approval. I remembered, as they spoke, stories that she had shared with me about each one of them. I wondered if they knew, as I did, that her fervent love for them fueled that mouth of hers. I almost wanted to hang around to tell them that, not as an admonition, but as an attempt at comforting them. I wanted them to know that she tried to direct their lives, not out of judgment or a selfish need to control them, but because she earnestly worried about their well-being and happiness. She wanted them to live fulfilled, happy, joyous lives. She wanted what all mothers and grandmothers want for their children and their children's children. Whether or not they followed her advice, or direction, as the case may be, she was proud of them.
Her pride showed in the way she spoke of them every day. It showed in the way she'd pass their photos around the room and in the way she would brag about their accomplishments. Her love for them was enduring and strong. Even when she disapproved of something they were doing or had done, her love for them never wavered.
One of her grandsons talked about how imperfect she was. She was as imperfect as we all are. Sometimes she said too much, sometimes she let her temper get the better of her. Sometimes she tried too hard to help and ended up taking over. However, in the end, she left a legacy of love and friendship, of a zeal for life that we can only hope to achieve in our own lifetimes. She lived life to its fullest up to her last day on Earth.
The last Friday that she was at Senior Action; the last day I saw her, we sat and talked for a while after everyone else had gone home. I noticed a difference in her. Perhaps it was that she couldn't quite remember things as well as she usually did, or perhaps it was that she seemed extra tired that day. She said she was going to go home and take a nap--not something I recall her saying often. I encouraged her to get some rest and feel better. As she walked out the door, something told me to tell her I loved her. "Bye," She said. "I'll see you Monday, I hope."
"Okay," I answered. "Have a good weekend. Love you!"
"Love you too." She said as she went out the door. I watched her as she walked to her car, her tiny steps slow and measured. Her big purse hung off her arm, her key, attached to the strap, already in her hand. I watched her get in and slowly back up and drive away, never imagining that I wouldn't see her walk in that door again.
Life is like a vapor, the Bible says. It is only a moment in the vast continuum of time. I met Bea on a February afternoon, during one of the most trying periods of my own life. Her kindness and encouragement came to mean the world to me. It gave me strength to keep rising in the mornings and to keep showing up for life, day after day. She shared her dreams and desires with me and made me realize something I desperately needed to learn: That no matter how old we get or how sick we are, life always has something new and wonderful to give us.
In all my years of working with seniors I've only met a hand full that left their mark on me. Bea Cawley's life was no different than yours or mine--it was but a vapor. I'm just so grateful that in her last years, I was around to catch her steam.
She will be greatly missed, as she was greatly loved. Her memory will be cherished and her laughter will always fill our hearts with joy. Even in our sadness and grief, we find hope and encouragement in the way she lived and in the way she died. Her steadfast faith and undying love remain with us, and will endure far beyond her years on Earth.
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