Andy and I settled into the booth at Starbucks. I stirred the Splenda in my coffee—one packet, leaving the rest for other customers. My friend Doris gazed at me across the table, her notebook open. She had barely touched her cheese Danish.
“Have you thought about what songs you’d like during the service?” she asked. As the head of Good Shepherd’s bereavement ministry, Doris was good at gently leading us through the process without pushing an agenda or checking items off a list.
To my delight, about five people from the men’s choir agreed to learn “Angel Band,” complete with a banjo and a hammered dulcimer, before the service. I also asked them to sing “All Creatures of Our God and King” during the service. And Andy had run into Pascale Shaftel, Ann’s high school French teacher, and she had asked if there was anything she could do.
“Actually, would you sing at her funeral mass?” Andy asked. Pascale is French Canadian and is trained as an opera singer. Her husband is the minister of music at Good Shepherd, and Andy had heard her sing “Ave Maria” once before. In fact, he’d already told me he wanted her to sing it at his funeral. To our delight, she’d agreed to sing it for Ann’s.
“Have you thought about who will do the Scripture readings?” Doris asked.
Her little checklist included everything we needed to decide for a proper service. A funeral mass follows a certain pattern, so we didn’t have to come up with a format. There would be an entrance song, a Communion song, an offertory song, three Scripture readings, the prayers of the faithful, and the distribution of Communion.
“I already asked my mom,” I said. “My main concern is family members getting up and sobbing so much they can’t make it to the end of the passage.”
“Can she do it?” Doris was as pragmatic as an insurance salesperson, but as gentle as a fluffy pillow. She led me through the questions in a loving, practical way—and not only because she’s a lovely Southern lady. She had lost her husband about three years before, and I believe her widowhood gave her more compassion and sensitivity for others who grieved.
“She said she could.” I smiled.
“Well, you won’t believe it, but someone called the church and offered to read a passage,” she said.
Without her even having to tell me, I knew it was Barbara Palmer, the wife of the ophthalmologist who tried to assist Ann in the hospital. She was one of the readers at our church, and she took the Word of God seriously. I loved her passion, and how she always said she was “preaching” when she read the holy Scriptures.
“Perfect,” I said, exchanging a look with Andy. We had already considered asking Barbara if she would be willing to read.
“Who’s going to give the eulogy?” she asked. The funeral was planned for exactly one week after Ann died, because of the Easter holiday and travel issues. We had more time than most people to plan, but we couldn’t pin down one of the most important aspects of the service.
“We’ll have to get back to you on that.”
First, we asked Rod Durham, a high school drama teacher who was like her second father. During those rocky high school years—when kids naturally separate from parents—Rod was a trustworthy presence in her life. Their relationship provided a safe and honest place to ask questions and figure out what sort of adult she wanted to be. Unfortunately, the drama class was on spring break in Tampa for the state drama competition after Easter. None of the drama students would be at the funeral, and Rod had to decline.
Second, we asked Molly Shakar, Ann’s boss at the baby boutique. She had an interesting perspective on Ann as well, since she had gotten to know her through the store. She saw Ann pay sweet attention to the mothers and their children, and she trusted Ann to open and close the store as an eighteen-year-old. But she declined too. “I couldn’t get through the eulogy without weeping,” she said. “There’s just no way I can do it.”
As we sat there wondering whom to ask next, I looked at Andy and said, “We should do it.”
“What are you thinking?” he laughed. “We can’t do it.”
“Who else?” I asked. We knew her better and had loved her longer than anyone. Secretly, I figured I’d do a much better job than anyone else.
“Well, let’s start writing it,” Andy said, though he had his doubts. “And if it’s too much, we can get someone else to read it.”
We sat down together with my laptop and started writing. My hands paused above the keyboard. “Where do you start on a eulogy?”
“At the beginning, I guess.”
“We didn’t know she would be a girl—we knew she would be a girl. We gave her her name, Ann Margaret, the day after she was born. Before that, we hadn’t been able to agree on a name—Andy and I hadn’t. Sarah and Allyson knew what they wanted to name her: Rainbow Dolphin Star Heart. That would have been some name to grow up with.”
We smiled and cried as the words flowed out of us and onto the screen.
“You know what?” I said about an hour—and a thousand words—later. “I can do this. I know I can.”
“Really, Kate?”
“All I need is for you to stand behind me,” I said. “I’ll read it until I can’t.”
The day of April 10, 2010, was like any other spring day in Florida: warm and sunny, without a single cloud in the sky. Before people started arriving for the service, we went upstairs to see the church. There, next to Ann’s ashes, was an oil portrait that stopped me in my tracks.
“Look, Andy!” I gasped. “Who did this?” As it turned out, the funeral home had taken one of the photos we’d submitted of Ann and made it into a jaw-dropping portrait. We were totally blown away by their thoughtfulness and kindness. The photo had come from her most recent birthday. The artist had simply removed her party hat, and kept her gorgeous smile.
Happier days.
I stood there for a moment, admiring the painting . . . trying to get lost in her eyes. Though the artist had done a magnificent job at capturing Ann’s essence, I had to stop looking at it. Her eyes were just layers of paint, though perfectly applied. I couldn’t really look into them.
“God,” I prayed, interrupting the rare moment of silence before the activity of the day began, “get us through this.”
We went down to the basement of the family center to await the funeral. We milled around, straightening ties, grabbing Kleenex, preparing for all the people who were beginning to arrive. Cruelly, it felt a little like a wedding—all my family gathered in nice clothes, awaiting a ceremony involving Ann and—in an odd way—Conor. Though he was locked away in the Leon County jail, we had gathered because of him. I remembered the angst we’d felt over Conor’s request to marry Ann. We’d agonized over how to handle that situation perfectly, so we wouldn’t alienate either of them. Our hesitance was warranted, but we never could have imagined this.
About fifteen minutes before the funeral, someone from the church rushed down the stairs, a little out of breath.
“The CBS affiliate news station just arrived,” he said. “They asked me what their limitations are.”
“What do you mean?” Andy asked. “What do they want to do?”
“They want to know if they can film the funeral,” he said. “And if you don’t want them to film the funeral, can they film anything else?”
“Why do we have to deal with this now?” I asked. “Right now before the funeral starts?”
“If you’d like me to tell them to leave,” he said, “I will.”
We never answered the Tallahassee Democrat’s phone calls, responded to the TV stations’ requests, or interviewed with People magazine. We had no desire to do that, to be so public with our grief during this time, to make the tragedy the story.
Andy and I discussed our options and decided to let them stay.
“Tell them they can come inside the church, but no cameras,” Andy said. “Tell them to respect the church service and no interviews.”
I tried to shake off that unexpected development. But when we came into the sanctuary, I saw the reporter with her cameraman, sitting in the foyer of the church, a notebook in her lap. Even if she hadn’t been taking notes, I would have been able to pick her out immediately. They were the only people in the packed room I didn’t know.
The family settled in on the front rows, and I grabbed Andy’s hand. The men’s choir began singing “Angel Band,” which cut me straight to the core. Their version was touching, beautiful. I couldn’t believe they could so quickly learn a song not typically performed at mass. The banjo and the dulcimer echoed through the church, hitting notes of hope even among the mourning. Then Dr. Joe played “Clare de Lune” on the piano. After a few moments of silence, I knew it was time.
This was it.
“As our sister Ann has died in the Lord,” Father Will began, “so may she live with him in glory.” We were touched that seven priests and four deacons celebrated the mass, although Father Will was the main celebrant.
I had carefully chosen the message in the scriptures.
From Revelation 21:4: “ ‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain.”
And from John 12:24–25: “Very truly I tell you, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds. Anyone who loves their life will lose it, while anyone who hates their life in this world will keep it for eternal life.”
Father Will did the homily, in which he brought out how Ann’s death echoed the death of Christ. He explained how the whole parish was brought into the reality of the Passion that week like none other. Ann was shot on Palm Sunday, which began Passion Week. She faced death during the week and even passed away on Good Friday—the same day and the same hour as Christ had died. The way he described it elevated her death from some horrible tragedy to a sacred suffering, echoing Christ’s. There was a difference, though. Christ was perfect and sinless. The Savior of the world. He suffered because of our sins and would rise again, triumphant over death. Sadly Ann’s death was not reversible, but we knew that she—as a believer—would be able to benefit in his victory.
In fact, 1 Corinthians 15 says, “ ‘Death has been swallowed up in victory’ . . . He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ” (vv. 54, 57).
I felt that eternal hope of being reunited with Ann one day as I listened to Father Will speak. After Communion, the familiar piano introduction to “Ave Maria” began. Throughout our planning, we had wanted the music in Ann’s service to express God’s love, care, and provision for us. As Pascale began singing, we knew we’d succeeded.
“Ave Maria, gratia plena . . .” The crowd sat in rapt attention as she sang. “Dominus tecum . . .”
When she sang the last note, I knew it was time to see if I could get through the eulogy—contrary to Andy’s doubts. I walked up to the pulpit, my husband positioned right behind me.
I cleared my throat.
“We didn’t know she would be a girl—we knew she would be a girl . . . Sarah and Allyson knew what they wanted to name her: Rainbow Dolphin Star Heart.” Everyone laughed, eager to find some levity, some bright spots in a service commemorating the life and death of someone so young.
“That would have been some name to grow up with. She loved her older sisters, Sarah and Allyson, and missed them terribly when they went to school.”
I looked out on the first rows, looked at her sisters, and smiled. They were crying.
“Her love extended from the smallest to the largest of animals . . . No matter what career path she followed, her ultimate goal was to find a piece of land where she could raise horses and rescue birds of prey.”
So far I’d kept my part of the deal. My voice was smooth and clear, unadulterated by any emotion trying to sneak in and sabotage my delivery. I knew I could cry later in the privacy of my home without everyone being held hostage by a public breakdown.
“Our family shared many camping adventures together, and once grown, Ann continued to share adventures with her sister Allyson. Over the past summers, they have taken trips to Providence Canyon in Georgia and to South Carolina, where they entertained the most unusual guests by the campfire—wild pigs.”
I loved that the girls continued to hang out together as adults. I had been looking forward to seeing their relationships as they all had children, to watching “Aunt Ann” take care of her nieces and nephews armed with knowledge she’d gleaned from working at the baby boutique.
“At her job, she’d send us pictures of the latest sleepers and laboring gowns. We never quite understood her love of Sophie the giraffe, a soft squeaky toy teether. But I think that sweet little face just grows on you.
“Ann sought Jesus in her own unconventional way. Ultimately, it was Ann who led us back to our Catholic faith.”
I told the story of how I’d brought the girls to church, and Ann had popped up to get Communion even though she wasn’t Catholic. Everyone laughed when I told them that the priest had leaned over and asked me about the girls: “They aren’t Catholic, are they?”
It’s one of my favorite stories, because it shows how Ann sought her faith in a real and tangible way. She didn’t care about whether or not her actions were technically correct—she wanted to get to God and she did, unknowingly drawing the rest of the family toward him as well.
“It is our faith and God’s grace that have gotten us through these past weeks,” I said. At this point, my voice finally began to break. Looking out into the audience of people—everyone we’d ever known in Tallahassee, from work, from school, from church, from the community—I was overcome by emotion. And so, I stepped aside from the microphone. Seamlessly, Andy stepped up and began reading. He didn’t miss a syllable; he didn’t pause to find his place. He spoke confidently.
“We love Conor, and we cannot define him by that one moment. Because if we do, then we also define Ann by that moment. The doctor said it was a miracle that she was alive when she arrived at the hospital. It was. Because if she had died before that, then her death would have been one of violence. Instead, we all had the opportunity to see her, spend time with her, say good-bye to her, and witness her most peaceful death.”
Andy’s voice was smooth and calm. As he read a section, it allowed me the time to gather myself and regain control of my emotions.
“We want to conclude with words Ann wrote herself on June 6, 2009,” I said, taking the paper back from Andy. We’d found this writing of Ann’s in a small book in her room.
“ ‘I am Ann Margaret Grosmaire. I am eighteen years old. I am an adult. I have entered the real world—finally after seventeen years of waiting and wondering. My childhood is a stage of my life best kept separate from my adulthood. It is behind me now. There is no sense in letting it disturb my adulthood. Now is the time for growth. To my best ability I will continue to add to myself. I know no fear, only curiosity and a true sense of self. I need not impress. I need not approval. I am self-enriching—not self-doubting. I live a simple life. It is so simple it could almost be labeled boring and dull. This doesn’t bother me. I’m often alone. This leads me to be quiet. I enjoy quiet. I enjoy simple. Drama is only a hassle. Problems are things I wish to avoid. Emotions lead only to trouble. The unknown is waiting to be discovered. The future may be shaped, but the past never changed. The present is to live in, for soon as it is, it is gone. In ink which cannot be erased, I will record the events in my life that cannot be changed.’
“That ink has now been placed on paper, not in this world but in heaven in the Book of Life,” I said, realizing that Andy and I had just made it. We’d eulogized our youngest daughter, our love. And we’d done a pretty good job too.
“Thank you very much.”
“We’re having a program to honor Ann,” Rod Durham said over the phone. “Can you come?”
While the funeral at Good Shepherd was packed full of friends and loved ones, there was one noticeably absent group: Ann’s theater peers. On that day, the Leon Thespians were in Tampa for state competition, so at 2:00 p.m.—the exact time our service started—the drama troupe formed a circle at the hotel to honor her. As soon as everybody was back in town on Tuesday night, the teens wanted to share their memories with us.
We were deeply touched that they wanted to remember Ann, but we weren’t sure what to expect when we arrived at the small auditorium classroom. It began with the song “We Shall Walk Through the Valley in Peace.” Then two of her friends, Colin and Casey, gave short but touching eulogies about how she was a behind-the-scenes helper as a student director, a member of the technical crew, and a stage manager.
When she was a senior, Ann came out from the background and was persuaded to be one of the main characters in the play Proposals. That year, she won the Thespian of the Year Award, which would be named “Ann Grosmaire Thespian of the Year” in her honor after we created a drama scholarship.
“She was quiet, but when she talked,” Casey said, “people respected her.” It was so moving to hear what a good friend Ann had been to Casey. Afterward, they sang “The Rose” and finished with Sarah Folsom singing “Angel.” The way this memorial would work was simple. Each person had thought of one word to describe their friend, which they’d say as they lit one of the tea lights on the table at the front.
The first student came up to the table, grabbed the lighter, and ignited the little wick. “Witty.”
Another walked up, lit the next candle, and simply said, “Beautiful.”
The next: “Reliable.”
It was very powerful in its simplicity. Though they were drama students, this was no performance. After about the fifth student went to the table, lit the candle, and uttered his one-word tribute, I suddenly thought: We’re not recording this. I won’t remember this. I’m not writing this down. I’ll forget the words.
“Funny,” a student said.
“Loyal,” said another.
“Considerate.”
The words were so beautiful, so poignant. I told myself to enjoy the experience instead of worrying about documenting it. I remember thinking every parent of a teenager would want to hear their teen described by their friends in this way—maybe for graduation or another significant milestone.
Honestly, I’d sometimes get frustrated at Ann for staying so late at her play practices. She’d be at school until ten or eleven o’clock at night, then be exhausted by the time she got home.
“Did you do your homework?” I asked after she rolled in late one night.
“Sure,” she said, not paying me much attention.
“When?” I asked. “If every night you’re up there for the play?”
At the time, drama created . . . well, drama between us, as well as the other aspects of teenage life. In fact, the conflict had gotten so intractable that I finally had gone to God in my exasperation. When she turned eighteen, I had a talk with him one evening at church. “God, you gave her to me for eighteen years to raise. Thank you for that. Now, I’m giving her back to you. I hope I’ve done my job.”
I wasn’t giving up on her, but it marked a transition for me. She was an adult who would need to be making adult decisions even though she was still living in our house. For example, one of our rules was that we wanted her to text us when she got in the car and started home at night. When Andy was out of town, she wouldn’t do that no matter how much he emphasized that this requirement didn’t wane just because he wasn’t home. Her lack of compliance irritated Andy, because he still saw her as his teenage daughter. In my mind she’d transitioned into adult, and—after my chat with God—I decided to start letting things like this go.
That night we heard many stories. One young man said, “I just have to let you know that Ann was such a light in my life.”
Listening to these words made me realize that life isn’t about getting good grades, coming home on time, and following all the rules. Though those things are important, it was much more gratifying to hear that she was a young woman with friends she really loved.
“Helpful.”
“Compassionate.”
Being able to see my daughter through the eyes of her friends was truly an honor. And so, I quit trying to hold so tightly to the moment and let their words—their ephemeral words—apply a much needed balm to my broken heart.
“Kind,” a student said as she lit a candle and smiled at us.
“Generous,” said another.
“Love.”