Reading by a granddaughter-Isaiah 61

Carole Purcell was a main caregiver the last year of her grandmother's life. She read from Isaiah 61 (New King James Version) at her grandmother's memorial service:

“The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon Me,
Because the LORD has anointed Me
To preach good tidings to the poor;
He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted,
To proclaim liberty to the captives,
And the opening of the prison to those who are bound;

To proclaim the acceptable year of the LORD,
And the day of vengeance of our God;
To comfort all who mourn,

To console those who mourn in Zion,
To give them beauty for ashes,
The oil of joy for mourning,
The garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness;
That they may be called trees of righteousness,
The planting of the LORD, that He may be glorified....”

Reflections of a daughter-in-law, "Let's Lean"

“Let’s Lean” - Jean Purcell - to remember and honor life of Mary Helen Purcell

Mary Helen Purcell was my mother-in-law—Mom Purcell and Mary Helen. The force of personality of my husband’s mother gave me many challenges from the beginning. She was a beautiful, 40-year-old woman when we first met. I was 20. After Jim and I married, she encouraged, bragged on, and believed in me. She did all she could to teach and share her skills with me on the rare occasions we saw each other.

Yet, often I felt overwhelmed by her in the early years of marriage. I finally decided it was a matter of sink or…rise toward her level of confidence. Along with her daughter-in-law, Barbara, I got to know a generous, brave, and inclusive woman.

Here is a little story that gives a picture of our relationship’s early years: When our two daughters were two years old and two months old, Jim and I moved to Maryland. We invited his parents to celebrate our first Christmas with us. Later she called us from Tennessee to say that they wanted to bring four extra people with them for Christmas.

I began to worry about things like food, space, and beds. And I was upset with her. But she laid out a strong case that turned me around: The other family would not mind doubling up. They had never been anywhere. They hardly had anything. It would mean so much to them to come and to visit Washington, DC!

Of course, all went well that Christmas in our tiny, very full house!

You know that Mary Helen’s way was unselfish, yet she had healthy self-regard. She loved to reach out, get going, and take charge if others were letting things fall. Yet, she also had a quiet humble way of faith. When she moved to Maryland 10 years ago, not once did she say anything to us about missing her former home.

When we were adjusting to her need for special help from Gilchrist In-home Hospice Care, a group of young couples decided to bring dinner meals to us for a while. They came in shifts and talked with her every time.

One of them, Kristen Johnson, told about one of their conversations. Mom Purcell was talking about her youth when she and Jim’s dad were home missionaries in a remote, poor, and rough area in the Tennessee Mountains.

After a while, Kristen remarked, “Mom Purcell, that was hard and dangerous work!”

Mom Purcell answered, “Yes, it was. They either loved you or they killed you.”

Not long ago, she and I decided to discuss Psalm 23. She began, “The Lord is my Shepherd,” and put her hand firmly on her chest. “He’s my Shepherd. It’s personal.” Then she expounded more on that phrase, and her thoughts were so profound that I sorely wished we had a tape recorder going. It came from her life with her Shepherd.

One day in her last weeks Jim and I felt especially helpless. We had done everything possible. I sat on the side of her bed and leaned over, my head face down on her pillow, up against her head. That was my feeble effort. Our face-hug continued for a while. But did she know I was there?

Two days later when she did not answer me I leaned over her, worried. “Mom Purcell, Is there anything I can do?”

She answered in a whisper: “Let’s lean.” Did she mean what I thought?

“Do you mean like this?”—I asked, sat down and put my head face-down on the pillow, as before. She whispered, “Yes.” We leaned into each other and held it there.

In her last days, she would look up and point toward the ceiling. Once she sat up; her head and extended arms facing upward. She called out, “Does anybody have a testimony?” What did she see that was otherwise unseen?

Early one morning soon after, she went into the Lord’s presence.

During the service here last Sunday, I could picture Mary Helen in white—in perfect well-being—arms raised toward the higher heavens.

She always emphasized that faith opens a personal relationship with Christ. “The Lord is my Shepherd.” I am sure she wanted every person to be able to say that.

Now we lean into God and His eternal care for His children. She is our beloved Mama, Great Grammy, Mom Purcell, and friend. Child of God, Mary Helen.

Service for Mary Helen Purcell, St. John's Episcopal Church, Ellicott City, MD, on Saturday, March 6, 2010.

Refer to March 2010 Blog Archive list (at right) to select readings of scriptures or reflections from the memorial service for Mary Helen Purcell (1919-2010), mother of James N. Purcell JR, Charles R. Purcell, and Billie P. Barnes. Wife, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, artist, friend, and faithful Christian woman of great good humor.

"A Cowgirl in Our Midst"-tribute by a granddaughter

Deirdre Reilly introduced her reading's background: A tribute she wrote for her newspaper column 10 years before her grandmother's death.

A Cowgirl in Our Midst

There aren’t a lot of cowgirls around anymore. By cowgirls I mean women who can cook you a gourmet meal out of a potato and a pot of water, wrassle wild animals, and rock babies to sleep. Luckily, I have one of the few remaining cowgirls left, right here in my own family; her name is Mary Helen, and she’s my grandma.

Mary Helen was born in Beech Grove, Tennessee, and was married by the time she was 14—not unusual in her part of the country and back in those days. In my own girlhood I was amazed by this and questioned my grandmother with all the inquisitiveness and sensitivity my liberal arts public school education could muster.

“Grammy,” I began (I remember we were sitting in a car outside the 7-11 and my mother had run in to get bread), “what was the hardest thing, emotionally and mentally, of course, about marrying at that age—barely a young woman?”

Mary Helen considered this question seriously for a moment, then answered, “I had to get rid of my horse and my gun.” That’s what she said.

Mary Helen’s true love was the young man she married way back when, and she had three babies with him—she gave birth to my dad at home in her bed, the doctor too far away to call.’

“Grammy,” I said, amazed at this, “what was the thing you remember most—physically and mentally, of course—about having dad at home?”

Mary Helen considered this for a moment (I remember she was standing a t the stove) and answered, “I was sure glad when it was over.”

Mary Helen is a gifted artist. One painting she did, of two Native American men gliding through the Florida Everglades in a canoe while surrounded by crocodiles, has always symbolized to me Mary Helen’s imagination and creativity. She said, “That one used up a lot of green paint.”

Mary Helen just told me recently that she had a nephew named Paul who died at the young age of two, during the Depression. Paul had been living with his grandparents—Mary Helen’s parents—when his own parents took him away, desperately believing that they could survive and café for their baby on their own. Paul died of starvation. This was the first time I had ever heard of Paul

“Grammy,” I said over the phone line, “how did any of you get over losing Paul?”

There was a weighty silence on the other end of the line. “Mama and Daddy begged them not to take that baby away till times were easier,” was Mary Helen’s quiet reply.

Mary Helen loves a good laugh; once, upon returning to the cemetery where her husband lay buried, she noticed that the grave sit and double headstone created for her and her husband were unequal; my grandfather’s side was weeded and trimmed and polished, while her side—dates not yet carved in—was overgrown and in pretty sore shape. She turned to the minister of the church, who happened to be with her on her visit, and said, “My side looks kind of neglected, don’t you think?”

The minister mopped his brow and answered, “Mary Helen, you’re not using it yet!” She loved that.

In the last few years Mary Helen has moved away from her home and her home state, and she has lost her sight. She just keeps right on going.

On a recent vacation at the beach, I pulled salt water taffy from my teeth while I watched Mary Helen crochet five e or six dishwashing cloths, sew a button on one of my kids’ shorts, and feel her way all around the unfamiliar rental house, memorizing it in no time.

Some day, I thought, I will have grandkids who will ask me about her. I could tell them the funny stories or show them her artwork, but I think instead I will try to explain the way Mary Helen looks when grace is being said at the supper table. Her long body kind of folds in on itself, and her proud gray head drops in worship, in obedience, in tune. She goes where sometimes she talks and sometimes she listens; she goes where Paul is being fed.

My prayers, sitting shoulder to shoulder with her, are different. “Lord,” I ask, “let us keep her.”

After all, there aren’t too many cowgirls left.