I have always known how extremely lucky I am to be the granddaughter of a truly remarkable, generous woman. Aside from living an extraordinary life, Clara Coan left community and love wherever she went. In her many world travels, she would forge random, lifelong friendships. As a school nurse, she provided a haven for many students who continued to write her letters and visit her up until the final days of her hospice care. And as for the family that she loved so much, we were left with the realization that she had given us a gift of love and gratitude that we could not help but to pass along.
I remember spending dinners at my grandparents' farmhouse, dinners that were almost always accompanied by endless stories and delicious food and, most importantly, as many people as PawPaw could wrangle into joining us at the table. Family friends were, in her eyes, simply an extension of her blood relatives.
When I was a junior in high school, there had been a kitchen fire and my grandparents were living out of a mobile home for a few months while they remodeled. During that time, PawPaw wrote me a letter expressing her yearning to get back into her kitchen so that she could host and be surrounded by the people she loved again: "as I'm sure you can remember, our house was always full of friends (of course, family) which made me the happiest. So may that happen again in the Fall when we return to a house where it can be full again."
These words are all you need to hear to understand the spirit of this woman. She was a wordsmith who taught her daughters and grandchildren that communication is a crucial part of being an effective citizen of the world. Her people made her happy, and in turn her full kitchen provided happiness to all of us in a most profound way.
She spent her life in service to others. Whether that was in a formal position (doing volunteer work, hosting traditional Chinese dinners as a donation to organizations that she cared about, or in her job as a school nurse), or in the simple acts of kindness that she sprinkled into everyday life. She was an open-hearted, open-minded, open-armed human who believed in the potential of humanity to achieve peace and harmony. She had respect for all faiths and nonviolent practices. She strongly advocated for education and gender equality. She participated in sit-ins as part of the civil rights movement and encouraged her children to dedicate their lives to bettering the world in whatever way they knew best.
When she went into hospice care, family and friends flocked from all over to care for her, bring food, say their see-you-laters, and to simply be in that love-filled home with the community that she had fostered. I watched as friends would filter in and out of her room, sharing stories and processing their grief. There was food (always her way of gathering us all), confusion, sharing, pain, and music. Over the course of those weeks, I learned even more about the impact that PawPaw had on each person she interacted with. Each and every person who wrote letters, emailed, called, or visited had a vivid and profound story of how Clara had changed their life for the better.
She did nothing but spread love. And as I sat in the corner of her room, and later at the kitchen table, I realized how precious the gift of her love was to all of us. Grief and loss are terribly confusing things. We all broke down during her hospice care. We each tore apart bit by bit as we processed the loss of this beautiful woman who we all adore. I saw family members cry in ways I had never seen before. I witnessed personal moments of pain and gratitude that I will never forget. As painful as it all was, there came a point that I think we all realized that...perhaps this was her final gift. Perhaps this community that she fostered over the course of her life was what would keep us all from cracking completely. And perhaps, even the harrowing experience of her last few weeks was a way for her to remind us of the love that matters so deeply to our shared humanity and joy.
Two months after she passed away, we held a "Day for Clara" weekend of memory and celebration. In Quaker tradition, there was a memorial service to be held under a big, beautiful white tent on the back lawn of the farm. Chairs were set up facing in towards each other, and the flowers along the garden wall were in full bloom. One by one, 'when the spirit moved them,' people stood and shared their memories, their dedications, their songs. Tears flowed and laughter spread over us like a soft blanket.
Unsure that I would be able to speak without choking up, I felt compelled to stand and speak. I shared a thought that had been percolating for a long time. I gazed out over the sea of faces that meant so much to my grandmother, and I shook my head. I said that this, this community, this family, is what made her happy, and that I found this to be the perfect way of honoring her impact on us all. I said that, as I had watched everyone walk past the house and her memorial garden, I was overwhelmed with joy... knowing that so many people would come from so many places to share and celebrate a woman who shared and celebrated each of us.
Of course I did cry, but I didn't feel drained. I felt like I had been given this gift of understanding what love and acceptance really are, and I was (and am) profusely grateful.
Time and time again I have heard stories and memories from friends she knew throughout her entire life. There is a common thread that ties them together and affirms to me the idea that PawPaw was a singular, incredible person, and that the love and generosity she shared with the world was not at all common. This thread, in my artistic mind, glows pure red (her favorite color and a symbol of luck). Under that tent two years ago, that thread thickened, growing stronger and pulling people together. That thread is a part of each of us now, and we spread bits of that spirit wherever we go as well. Whether we have made conscious decisions to be more generous like Clara, or whether it simply was modeled for us that being kind is the best way to live.
I am grateful, today and always, for the open mind, open heart, and open arms that my PawPaw fostered. As I have been watching all the events of the world these past few months, grappling with the blatant hatred and ignorance and greed, I have had to hold on to that love and remember that you cannot fight fire with fire... you cannot extinguish hate with more rhetoric. It takes love. And I feel now more than ever that I (we) need to be more generous and vocal about the things that matter.
I guess what I'm trying to say is this:
Whether you knew Clara or not, and whether you know anyone like her or not, know that a life well-loved is a life well-lived. Know that your kindness will not go unnoticed. Know that your hope is not futile. Know that your life and your mind and your heart are valuable and can create beautiful things. Know that people are joy. That family is precisely what you make it. That you have to stand up for love and equality, and that you might not see that dream come to fruition but at least your strength in the face of bigotry might make this world a little safer for the next generation. Know that open arms make for the happiest lives. That the color of your skin and the people you love do not determine your worth as a human. That the diversity of your faith, your nationality, and your gender are things to be celebrated and embraced, not hidden or demeaned.
I share this memory in the hopes that some of us might find strength anew to fight for love. Thank you for listening. May you bloom and grow forever...
