Today I remember a very special friend. It would have been her birthday today. It happens to be Jane Austen's birthday, and while I enjoy her writing immensely, she is not the friend I'm writing about today. This friend was not as famous, but she was also a writer.
About eight years ago, my daughter, then eight years old, announced she had a new friend. I was happy that her time in Sunday School allowed her to make a friend. When she asked if I wanted to meet her, she went through the people at coffee hour and took the hand of a small elderly woman. As they walked towards me, I noticed that they were almost the same size. This was not the pig-tailed little girl that I thought my child had met, but she had the same sweet quality in her smile. I was introduced by my daughter and I enjoyed a lovely conversation with the woman. It turns out that she had been a journalist, like my mother. She was a friendly person who I knew was special from that moment.
As the years passed, my daughter and this woman enjoyed a special bond. The woman was like a grandmother to my sweet girl. She even came to birthday parties. I loved watching the two of them together.
The woman encouraged my young daughter to dream. At the time, my daughter dreamed of one day playing a harp. That dream went on for a while, and it is now being realized. It's too late for the little woman to hear her play. The woman left her life here way too early for me. It was way too early for my little girl too. The child mourned so. Her best friend, and pseudo-grandmother was in Heaven, but her dreams were still here.
Today, as I drove my daughter to harp lessons, we remembered our friend. She played beautiful music at her lesson in honor of the little woman. I know she's listening. Happy Birthday, Anne!