“Her smile was infectious and her mind lively. More often than not, we made each other laugh until we cried, playing with words, accents, and ideas like children play with toys.”

By Carrie Gress

My dear friend, Peggy, died just over a year ago. I had known her since we were four. Her death came as something of shock. After years of suffering from alcoholism, the bottle finally got the better of her. Her life had been a sad one – an abusive father who didn’t mean to hurt her, but who got swipes in when she would try to protect her mother. He committed suicide in their basement when she was 13. Peggy spent years dealing with “her stuff” and even became a gifted therapist – guiding troubled men four times her size – to be free from “their stuff.” But three decades of therapy never quite helped her cope like a bottle of gin.

Our relationship was like one between sisters. We were so different and yet when we both happened to be home at the holidays, there was nothing like going for a two or three hour walk to catch up and delve deeper into the curious questions of life. Her smile was infectious and her mind lively. More often than not, we made each other laugh until we cried, playing with words, accents, and ideas like children play with toys. More than anything she had a huge heart and I marveled at her capacity to see the best in others and offer charity when charity was hard to offer.

Our sisterhood never felt more real than on my wedding day. She had come with me for my dress fitting and then joined me shortly before the Mass as I was dressing for the wedding. Because I knew she wasn’t practicing her faith, I had to explain to her that she couldn’t receive Communion. It was awkward given that she had attended Catholic schools longer than even I had, but no one had ever told her before about mortal sin and how when one is away from the sacraments, they cannot receive the Eucharist. The unfolding of the day made the awkwardness melt away and she was my go-to girl to help me manage the copious layers of my dress at different stages of the reception, pinning up the train and making sure none of it got dropped in the toilet when required.

Months later, she confessed that my catechetical bomb had been really a struggle for her. How didn’t she know this and who was I to tell her this after all these years of Catholic schooling? And yet, over time, she realized that what I had said was true – she shouldn’t have been receiving because she really didn’t believe. She had been hurt, but eventually, she saw that she could trust me through it.

The years passed, and her life seemed more and more precarious – a divorce, a leave of absence from work, and a mystery auto-immune illness. Our phone calls continued, but I never saw her in person, so it was easy for her to hide her decline. Through our conversations and her struggles, she ebbed closer to coming home to the Church, even visiting a priest. But her biggest obstacle was the old wounds of the heart – how could she be close to a God who called himself Father, when her own father had been so brutal? Finally realizing how significant a block this was to her, I switched gears and told her to go to Mary. Mary, a mother, was someone she could go to. Her own mother had been a dear woman. I asked Peggy to start praying the rosary. She did. She told me that her devotion to Mary was growing stronger and that if I could see her apartment, I would know it was growing. She actually had Marian art everywhere. I knew that Our Lady was working in her life. But I didn’t realize how short the time was for her to work.

Peggy died in the hospital surrounded by friends in June 2018, after she was found in her apartment comatose. She had gone to the liquor store and declared to the clerk – who knew her well – that this bottle she was buying was going to finally kill her. And it did.

I went back to Oregon for the funeral and was happy to spend time once again with her many close friends and relatives who were able to fill in the gaps to her story. No, there was no mysterious auto-immune disease. It was alcoholism. And the divorce? Well it was necessary because her recovering addict husband couldn’t live any longer with an addict. But the piece that gave me the greatest consolation was that when her things were gone through, many rosaries were found. She had told one friend, “Whenever things get really bad, I just hold the rosary in my hand. It is like holding Mary’s hand.” I can’t help but be grateful knowing that Mary truly was with her.

As I spoke with her closest friend, Kelly, I asked if perhaps there was still something of hers left that I might have to hold on to – even something small, like a rock or shell. Kelly’s eyes lit up and she said, “Yes, follow me to the garage. We still have some of her things that we have been giving to those who will cherish them.” As I walked into that garage, among bowls of jewelry and kitchen items, I saw an icon or two of Mary. The ones she had told me about. But then I saw another piece of art featuring two holy women – one religious and one lay. No one had claimed it, but everyone present agreed that it was still there waiting for me.

Today, this image hangs on a wall in my bedroom. The colors look like it was made to go in the room – perfectly matching the silk drapes next to it and all the other color tones in the room. It was too large for me to carry on the plane after the funeral. My mom, who was in the process of a move, didn’t get it to me quickly. She also confessed that she just liked having it around since it was such a beautiful piece, but mainly because it had been Peggy’s (or Peggith, as she affectionately called her for most of her life).

The piece arrived this summer as I was contemplating anew the idea of fruitfulness. I have spent the last several years looking at the way that women grow deeper in their relationship to God. Most of my insight came from looking at how women have been destroyed by the culture through the tossing aside of both virginity and motherhood. Or more specifically, the casual disposal of the true model of womanhood – the Virgin Mother. And then this image arrived at my home featuring both a virgin in her purity, and a mother in her abundance – both holy, both fruitful, both deeply knowing who they are because they know the Father’s love. Both were adorned with golden crosses around their necks, like precious keys unlocking the secrets of their hearts.

The picture was all the more poignant arriving after the discovery that I was to be a mother yet again. At age 46, and after five years of not having had another child, I felt confident that my child-bearing years were over. I gave away all the baby clothing and gear, relishing the new space that had previously been filled with bin after bin of baby stuff. But God had other ideas and yet again, I was graced with the blessing of serving a new soul – that service starting quickly with the return of morning sickness.

As I laid in bed, feeling the yuck of pregnancy, it was easy to look up at Peggy’s picture and find consolation, like her infectious smile. But there was something more there. I felt strongly that there was something important about this image of a beautiful lay woman, and a beautiful virgin. It was almost as if Peggy and I were out again for one of our epic Christmas walks and she was connecting dots for me that I hadn’t connected before. She was doing what dear friends do, affirming the work God is doing in my soul. The image underscored what I had been working on in my head and heart - that my vocation is to tell women that their true beauty, their true desire of the heart, is found in virginity and motherhood. Christ is this key that unlocks the female heart like nothing else can.

I continue to pray for Peggy daily, with the awareness that so much of her own struggles were truly not her fault. I trust that God’s mercy and tenderness – the two things she never knew about him in this life - are made known to her now in abundance.