A journey, then, finally, home

The Boston Globe

Beverly Beckham

John never bought her a Valentine card. He surprised her on only one birthday. And every December, he insisted they wait until it was nearly Christmas to put up the tree because Advent, for him, was a time of preparation, not celebration.

He was like that. Pragmatic. Prudent. Practical.

Anne sends cards for no reason. On birthdays, she's been known to send a month's worth of cards and then show up at a person's door with ice cream, presents, and flowers. And though Advent to her means preparation, too, it also means celebrating. And partying. And decorating.

They were opposites in so many ways. But more things bound them than separated them. Both were avid readers. Both played cards and word games and did crossword puzzles. And cooked. And kayaked. And traveled. And loved birds and movies and red wine and being with family and friends.

He sauntered through his days. And then he put his feet up and relaxed. She sprinted. And then she played paddle tennis. But they lived life together - and it was a good life - for nearly 30 years. He had three children and she had two. Her daughter, Amy, died in 1984 at 11 of cystic fibrosis on a beautiful May morning when the forsythia were in bloom and they had been married just three years. Nothing stops when someone dies. The dog has to be fed. Someone needs a ride somewhere. The floor has to be swept, the dishwasher loaded. The phone answered. Life, so suddenly altered, so permanently dismembered, always goes on.

John Jackson was an Episcopal priest, who lived in Westwood and served in Canton, Franklin, and Wareham before moving to New Hampshire and serving in parishes there. His ministry was rooted in empathy. He was always gracious. And kind. He understood how people felt. John was a listener. He had a series of small strokes before the big one that killed him last week. The strokes changed him. For the last few years, he continued to listen. But he could no longer feel. He heard all the sad stories and he said all the right things, but it was by rote that he said, ``I'm sorry.'' And ``I understand.'' Sorrow and understanding had deserted him.

They settled in Anne. She lived with this altered John. He still did the crossword puzzle faster than she. He still read a book a day. He still played cards and watched movies and had dinners with friends and engaged in conversation. But everything was habit. ``Yes, please. No, thank you. Great. Fine.'' She missed the old John. Her John. She missed the man she had fallen in love with.

They went on a road trip in January. They drove to Florida, stopping along the way to visit museums and botanical gardens and friends and family. My husband and I flew to Florida two weeks ago and met with them in Naples. We had dinner together. ``What's been the best part of the trip?'' we asked John. ``Her,'' he said turning to his wife.

They were supposed to be away until mid-February, but two days after we met them, John said he wanted to go home. It's snowy and icy and awful, we said. Enjoy warm weather as long as you can. But he didn't care. They arrived back in Lancaster, N.H., on a Friday afternoon, just hours before another snowstorm. John died four days later.

John spent most of his life not just comforting people, but making people comfortable. He was quietly good. The memory of this, of the whole John, of the John before the strokes robbed him of what he did best, is a comfort now. He believed in eternal life. He believed that the body is a house for the soul. He believed that life doesn't end, it just changes.

He said he wanted to go home. The trip was good. But home was better. Home was what John longed for. Home is where he is now.