I met Ann in early December 1989. Seven months later she became my mother-in-law.

Over the transpiring thirty years, Ann and I became wonderful friends. Thanks to her generosity, love, and unconditional acceptance, I became family, not just by marriage to her daughter, but what she considered real and genuine family, a second son.

Through no fault of Ann’s, it took a while for my hesitant soul to believe that I had gained a second Mom. But in time, and through a constancy of love, it dawned on me that God gifted me with a wonderful woman who loved me as she loved her own. She generally called me “Sweet Boy”—most often in the morning and last thing at night.

When Dianne and I came home, each morning Ann insisted on preparing a big breakfast. At first, joining her in the kitchen was a politeness, something I figured a son-in-law should do. In time, standing with her as she prepped breakfast was our routine, our time, the one thing no one else shared but us. As I entered the spare, small kitchen, she always looked up, damp paper towel in hand, “Hey, Sweet Boy.” A hug ensued. I usually kissed her on top of her head.

For years and years, Ann and I talked in the kitchen. As she aged and her hearing became marginal, I shouted thoughts to her, she nodded and replied. She hummed and sang as she moved back and forth inefficiently. I drank coffee. Ann prepared what she always prepared—always a bit speculative that I truly didn’t want but three eggs, always making me five, always questioning why I didn’t finish my breakfast. “Sweet Boy, is that all you’re going to eat?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m full. It was wonderful. Thank you.”

“You sure you don’t want more eggs? There’s another biscuit there,” pointing to a plate eighteen inches away. “You didn’t eat all your bacon.”

“No, ma’am. I’m done.”

At which point she would blow a puff of air through her lips like blowing out a candle. It was Ann’s way. She’d done all she could do to help me get through the day without starving. I gained weight with Ann at the helm of the kitchen.

The balance of our relationship was just as easy as the kitchen routine we shared. Twice per year friends from Ann’s church brought her west as far as Canton, Texas, a small town buried deep in the piney woods. I drove to Canton, retrieved Ann, and she and I had three hours together in the truck going and returning. Our friendship was easy, comfortable, unconditional. She and I could have ridden to California together, but Fort Worth was our destination. I was always a bit sad when I turned into our drive. I now had to share Ann with my wife, her daughter. On the return trip to Canton, I never drove over the speed limit. I was in no hurry to relinquish someone so precious to me back to the friends from church.

I knew conceptually about unconditional love, but the only person I knew who loved in this way did so by reputation—it’s what the Bible said of God’s love. Until I met Ann. I sensed she was a nice woman from the beginning. Besides, someone remarkable had to embody Ann to have raised a woman as fine as, Dianne, my wife and her daughter. In time, I realized she was a special person, then a precious individual, then after a time and observation, I realized she was a woman who loved unconditionally. More personally, a woman who loved me unconditionally. Ann was a gift to me for many reasons, chief among them that she showed me an aspect of God that I only conceived—unconditional love—but didn’t grasp, let alone know actually existed.

Dianne and her Mom are world-class night owls. I tried staying up when we visited, but I was so pitiful. Three, maybe four hours before the two of them began talking about going to bed, I announced I was done. This signaled to Ann that it was time to eat the customary Klondike (ice cream) Bar. Conversation ceased while the three of us ate our chocolate-vanilla treat. Dianne finished hers first, me second, Ann always a distant third. Once done, I carefully bent over Ann’s chair, kissed her on the head, told her I loved her, and heard, “I love you too, Sweet Boy. You be good now.”

I wondered what trouble I could find while sleeping, but so our dance went for many years.

For a man like me, predisposed to be wary, watchful, and guarded, a woman like Ann is a precious, an unanticipated gift, a true mercy from the hand of God that I could touch. Her love comforted me. Secured me. Eased me. Brought rest to my intense soul. Ann demonstrated God for me—and I got the message, for which I’m eternally grateful. I’m a better man because Ann loved me.

By now, you’ve read enough past tense verbs to realize Ann made her exit from this life. Last Tuesday night a stroke impeded her, then compromised her, and eventually claimed her earthly dwelling at 1:30 AM, Sunday morning, June 28, 2020. Her passage was not dramatic. I’m so grateful. She simply slipped away.

Now, she is gone, this magnificent woman. She’s gone, but she’s not. I’m sure you understand.

She’s gone. Her body is absent for the duration of my days. She’s gone. I’ll never kiss her head again, sit in the den beside her reading while she works word puzzles, argue with her about paying for dinner or buying gas for my truck, and never go to bed knowing she remains sitting up until the wee hours.

I sat in her closet yesterday and smelled her scent, summoning all resolve to not ever forget the smell. Please God, make it so. I touched clothes she’ll never select from again, studied shoes she’ll never put on again, eyed the bag she’ll never pack again—the one I’ll never load again when I meet her in Canton. She’s gone and an era has passed.

Yet, Ann remains. My heart’s love is woven together with the careful strands by which she first loved me, showed me, taught me, and helped me to love more sincerely, more genuinely. Standing in the kitchen, I reminisce almost instinctually of being with Ann—being like I was with Ann, being as we were. When I think of all that is precious, Ann defines the facets of the glorious ideal and establishes its standard. In my intellect and theology, I understand that God loves me. With Ann sequestered in my soul’s vault, I know what it is to be loved today, tomorrow, and until my fleeting breath escorts me to Father’s arms, an embrace I believe I’ll understand better because aspects of Ann are part and parcel of my love and belovedness.

In our tradition, Ann’s remains are dressed in her violet-colored dress, within a metal casket, sealed inside a vault, that is beneath the red dirt of Union County, and marked by a towering stone in Gerizim Cemetery, Myrtle, Mississippi. I stood before the monument yesterday. Ann’s name is there. Ann is not.

Is this not our hope? Is this eternal confidence we possess not spit in the eye of death?

Ann is in heaven, and she is in my heart. Her lovely daughter is in my arms, integral to my life and mine to hers. We share many memories, especially those of Ann. The family remains, the one she brought me into, but one day we too shall be as Ann is. Free.