Farewell to Ellen Cerny

The last time I saw Ellen at hospice was on Monday. Lynn D. had lent her a book of poetry (Red Bird by Mary Oliver) and she asked me to return it to her. The day after she died, I opened the book for the first time to a random page. I don't think it was a coincidence that the poem I saw there was In the Evening, in the Pinewoods (though in my mind I would change it to say "Fir Woods"). Here is the poem:

In the Evening, in the Pinewoods

Who knows the sorrows of the heart?
God, of course, and the private self.
But who else? Anyone or anything else?
Not the trees, in their windy independence.
Nor the roving clouds, nor, even, the dearest of friends.

Yet maybe the thrush, who sings
by himself, at the edge of the green woods,
to each of us
out of his mortal body, his own feathered limits,
of every estrangement, exile, rejection – their
death-dealing weight.

And then, so sweetly, of every goodness also to be remembered.

I have only known Jan and Ellen for a few years, but one thing that has always struck me about them is their level of adoration for each other, despite being married for so long. Even "the dearest of friends" cannot know the sorrow of this separation that Ellen's passing has caused. May God grant Jan the strength to endure these days, months, years of grief.

Leah Winders