Beautiful Things

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes when the gravity of her words hit me. I’d known her less than a month, and somehow she’d become my family. Somehow she was walking with me in the journey to start a family of my own. Her extreme generosity overwhelmed me, and I began to weep.

***

Escaping the bitter cold of a January afternoon, I stood in line in a Starbucks on the far side of town. I’d just left the specialist’s office, and the news was disappointing. I knew I was stalling– I didn’t want to go home and face Pete, tell him that our worst fears had been confirmed. So I waited behind a group of teens, talking about Pumpkin Spice this or that, and I held back all of the negative emotions that were threatening to consume me.

The bell above the door jangled, and I glanced toward it out of habit. Years of serving in a small town diner had trained me to pay attention to any and all customers, even when I wasn’t working.

An elderly lady with an emerald green hat that was far too elegant for a Starbucks hobbled in with a cane clutched in her thin hand. The barista gave her a friendly hello, and the lady nodded back, coming to stand behind me in line.

Maybe I was still stalling, maybe I just wanted some company in the midst of my heartache, but something compelled me to turn and say hello.

“Hi there, I’m Angie. Could I buy you something, today, ma’am?” I said, with as much friendly energy as I could manage.

She squinted at me, looked me up and down, and gave a curt nod. She shuffled up to the till where the teen girls had left and smiled at the barista– Brandy, her name tag read. Brandy held out a bag with a pastry already tucked inside, and a tall drink.

“This one’s on her.” The old lady gestured to me, and I smiled at Brandy, nodding.

“Yes, it is. And I’d love a grande vanilla latte, too, please.” I added, before paying our bill.

“Why don’t you come to my table, Angie? I could use a little company today.” The elderly lady said. Without waiting for me to answer, she turned and shuffled away to a table in the corner.

I waited for my drink, thanked Brandy for her service, and made my way to that little table in the corner.

“Well, go ahead and sit. I’m Gladys.”

***

That was the beginning of our friendship. Gladys pulled out a little black notebook, and occasionally scribbled little notes in it as we talked. I was curious but thought it better not to ask. If she wanted to share, she would.

That day we talked for about an hour. Gladys was the type to ask thoughtful, insightful questions. I don’t know how, but she must have determined when she met me that I was hurting, and so she gently guided our conversation in a manner that led to me sharing my recent discovery: I couldn’t have children.

We talked about how I could break the news to my husband, and she asked questions about Pete, how we had met and what our dreams were for the future. She was so understanding, so compassionate…

I asked her about her life and she shared incredible stories of travel and love and daring adventure. She’d never been married, and never had kids. Writing, she said, was her greatest love. She wrote about the world around her, the lessons that life had taught, and the beauty in simple things that too many people forgot to look for.

We began to meet a few times a week, after that. She told me more about her life; at 92 years old, she had plenty of incredible stories to pass on. I told her about how Pete and I were grieving, how we were coping, and the medical interventions we hoped to one day be able to afford.

We had her over for dinner once, and Pete loved her just as I did. In just a few short weeks, Gladys had become like a grandmother to me. I was so glad to know her, and I like to think that I made a difference in her life. Without a spouse or any children, she had admitted to me that the existence of a senior in this world could be despairingly lonely sometimes. I told myself that I would go out of my way to lift that curse for her.

We didn’t see each other for a week in February– Pete and I went away for a holiday. It was our gift to each other for Valentine’s, and with our hearts still heavy about our inability to conceive, it was a much-needed getaway. I told Gladys I would see her at our regular table in Starbucks the following week. She told us to enjoy ourselves and reminded us to be on the lookout for the little, beautiful things around us that could be easily missed.

“Slow down, smell the roses, and appreciate the depth of their color. When the rain comes, remember it’s okay to dance in it sometimes. And do your best to love each other this week like you did the week of your wedding. Great love is hard to find, and harder still to hold onto. You kids have one of the great loves, and you can navigate the depths of your pain and come out the other side stronger, so long as you do it together. Travel safe, dear.”

With her encouragement, Pete and I used that week’s vacation to reconnect, realign, and reimagine our life together.

***

The Thursday after we returned home was another gut-wrenching day.

I arrived at Starbucks a few minutes ahead of Gladys. I ordered our “usual” from Brandy, sat at our table in the corner, and waited.

After 15 minutes, I called Gladys. She never answered.

I had wanted to believe she was held up– unable to get a taxi to drive her, or staying in bed because of the cold– but I knew she would have called to warn me. I knew, deep down, that this world had lost one of its most beautiful souls.

***

After a week and a half, I read her obituary in the paper. Her picture was from many years ago, so her features didn’t quite look the same. Her smile, though, was just as radiant in that photograph as it had been when I’d known her.

Pete and I mourned the loss of our dear friend. We wept together and drew nearer one another for comfort in the midst of our crippling grief. We remembered her last words to us, that so long as we would bear this storm together we would make it through, and be stronger on the other side.

Her funeral was full of lives she had touched– nurses from the home she had stayed at in her later years, friends both young and old from all around the world, the Starbucks employees, and many more.

She had always encouraged the people around her to see the beauty in the world, but we all knew she was the beauty that she was always looking for. A kind, gentle, and compassionate soul who loved others fiercely. And even though she’d never had a conventional sort of family, it was evident that day that she had made her own family all around the world. She had formed it through years of travel, adventure, and coffee-shop chats.

***

Another two months passed, and things began to normalize. Pete and I walked in our grief, but we found beautiful things in every day. It became a ritual to list the beauty we had seen that day to each other before bed. We wanted to honor Gladys, and we needed that time together to strengthen our relationship.

Then, one May morning, something unusual came in the mail. The return address was to a law office. I felt certain some mistake had been made, but it was addressed to me, so I opened it.

A smaller envelope fell out, along with a little black notebook.

Goosebumps rose on my arms, and I gasped audibly in the silence of my kitchen. I knew this book.

When I opened it, I found the familiar scribbles of Gladys’ handwriting. It was the journal she kept with her and wrote in every time we would meet. I had never asked about it, and she never spoke of it to me. And yet, she’d chosen to send it to me after she’d died.

I opened it gently, flipping through the pages. Most were short little notes about the color of the sky or the way a bouquet of flowers smelled at the florist. She made notes of all the beautiful things she encountered, sometimes doodling in the corners of the pages.

I flipped to some of the last pages she had written in. On the date we had met, she’d simply scribbled my name. Below that, she had scrawled “new friends.”

I smiled to myself, trying not to cry. To her, I was a beautiful thing.

On the very last page, there was a note written out. Short, but sweet, it said:

“My dear Angie,

I am sorry that our time together was so short. I have grown to love you as if you were my own granddaughter, which I hope you knew. You and Pete have a beautiful love and are building a beautiful life. I was honored to be a part of it. Honored to know you, and love you.

It is my hope that this gift will bless you both. I hope that you can have the life you’ve dreamed of together for so long. I hope you can tell your children about me, and teach them to love the beautiful things in this world. I trust my legacy to you, Angie, because I know your heart.

Please use this to build your family. I only wish I could be there to meet your children, my dear.

Forever your friend,

Gladys”

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes when the gravity of her words hit me. I’d known her less than a month, and somehow she’d become my family. Somehow she was walking with me in the journey to start a family of my own.

I reached for the smaller envelope that was with the journal. When I opened it, the tears I had been holding back fell freely. I counted the money she had left me and Pete through tear-blurred eyes, and then re-counted several times over.

Her extreme generosity overwhelmed me, and I began to weep. I grabbed my phone with shaking hands and called Pete.

Gladys had encouraged me when I had told Pete that we couldn’t have kids… and now she had blessed us with $20,000 so that I could tell Pete that we could start the journey with our doctors to make all of our beautiful dreams come true.

***

When our daughter was born, we named her Abigail Gladys. And we counted beautiful things with her, and our other 2 children every night before bed. They knew the name of their “Grandma Gladys” and asked to hear her stories when we tucked them in at night.

Our family has grown by 3 beautiful things, and our world continues to get more beautiful every day as we stop to appreciate the wonders around us thanks to our dear friend, Gladys.