Dear Fountainpen,

Tame chipmunk “Chippy” admiring one of your note cards

Dear Fountainpen,

On Sunday we carried our ceramic Christmas tree–the one Barry’s mom crafted for us many years ago–upstairs from the basement.  I discovered some of your hand-crocheted snowflakes and sprinkled them beneath the green tree.

You’ve been my friend since 2009, a blog reader extraordinaire, devouring my stories about trees, nature and our Little House in the Big Woods of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

You may have liked this picture of Bishop Baraga, our snowshoe priest

At first I knew practically nothing about you.  You seemed like you shared of yourself with invisible ink.  You gave, gave, gave with your commenting, your support, your encouragement.  But when I asked anything about YOU–anything vaguely personal–you deferred.  Demurred.  Gestured toward something else, anything else.  Your message seemed clear:  I’m not going to tell you anything about myself.

You sent gifts via snail mail:  homemade note cards galore, tea bags, a cinnamon-infused whisk created from tiny branches.  You asked to use a few of my photos on your cards.  You sent more note cards in the mail.  After my 365-day outdoor blog you traveled back through every month and made cards from one photograph each month.  I wrote a blog to thank you called Ode to Fountainpen. You gave, gave, gave, didn’t you, dear woman?

Cards you made me

As we exchanged notes and letters, you opened the door slightly and shared your real name on the return envelope.  Fountainpen lived in the world as a woman named Mary Lou Knapke of Norwood, Ohio. Wrong move, my friend, if you hoped to remain anonymous!  I turned to Google to discover the scoop.  Who was Fountainpen really?

Turns out you were a Catholic nun in the order of the Sisters of Charity of Cincinnati.  I was delighted to discover this.  I felt we had a spiritual bond–even though I often called God “The Universe” in my blogs.  Apparently that was not enough to turn you off.  You never seemed mired in fundamentalism or rigid dogma.  Instead, you seemed to be an agent of love, of ministry, of giving, of charity.  You often sent out email messages with prayers for the poor, the sick, the trampled, the disenfranchised.  You were a missionary of Jesus sending out love with every note card, gift and comment.  And you were a missionary for nature, loving the earth with a passion.

Once, during one of my several blogging breaks, you sighed and asked, “Why can’t you see your writing and photography as your calling, Kathy?”  I keep coming back to your question as the years pass, thinking about this.  Pondering what a calling might be.  Wondering more about you and your calling to serve God.

Oh don’t you love trees

This past Sunday I dug out scraps of paper stock and pictures and started making homemade Christmas cards.  What card shall I send you this year, dear Fountainpen?  For some reason, I did not create one–nothing seemed quite right.

On Monday morning realized I hadn’t heard from you in about a month.  Your last email dated November 2nd expressed delight in my post Breathing with Trees.  You included this quote:

“….There is no whit less enlightenment

under the tree by your street than there was

under the Buddha’s bo tree.”

-Annie Dillard, FOR THE TIME BEING, p. 88

Suddenly, on whim, I turned to Google and typed in:  Mary Lou Knapke Obituary.

It turns out you have died.

Unexpectedly.   In your home.  On November 6th.

I cried so hard sitting here at this computer.  Hard racking sobs.  Not since my dad passed away have I wept so hard, so deeply, so fully.

One of your sweet birch bark turtle cards

Oh, dear Fountainpen.  You are gone.  I knew you were experiencing atrial fibrillation last summer.  That you were hospitalized briefly.  That you were scared.  I attempted to console you by sharing that Barry has had afib for many years. You were hopeful.  You came home, you seemed fine, you created dozens upon dozens of cards this fall and offered them to your friends if we wanted to donate to charity.

Here is your obituary, just in case other readers might want to read.  You were but 77 years young. A representative of the Sisters of Charity sent this In Memoriam posting from their website.

Turns out you gave to others in so many ways.  After teaching and pastoral ministry assignments, you learned massage therapy and shared it with so many.

“As a member of the Ohio Massage Disaster Response Team, she spent four separate weeks in the days following 9-11 in New York City in 2001 and 2002. The team provided free services to exhausted rescue workers and caregivers working near the site of the Sept. 11 tragedy; they listened, massaged and comforted. Sister Mary Lou was quoted at the time, “Human touch is so powerful to nurture and bring a person home inside themselves. It is a human ministry to human exhaustion and human pain.” They provided similar service to rescue workers and security personnel in New Orleans following Hurricane Katrina and those responding to the floods in Kentucky in 2003. Sister Mary Lou was also trained as a mid-life directions consultant and served as the ongoing coordinator of the After-Crisis Care Team.”

Dear Fountainpen, I know you are probably shaking your head in heaven at all this attention.  You’ve never been one that felt comfortable receiving attention.  You’d probably still rather be anonymous in death.  I just want you to know that you have made a difference in my life.  A huge difference.

The representative at Sisters of Charity wrote this:

She was truly loved by many and will be deeply missed.

Fountainpen, I will miss you.

With love and admiration,  Kathy