2023/39 KATHY OLESON'S EASTER JOURNEY

My old friend Kathy sat beside me on the first pew in our chapel, up front, where we both ended up sitting after bearing our testimonies in church two weeks ago. Kathy had stood to witness to all or us that she loved her Lord. Then she asked, against her timid nature, if we would mind praying for her. “I’m having surgery and feel like I need some extra prayers.” 

Kathy is a faithful soul. If I were in need of prayers, I would want hers. 

Kathy and her husband, Paul.

I’ve known her since before she was baptized into our church. I rejoiced with our friends and neighbors when she entered the waters of baptism. Her husband Paul would stand in testimony meeting when she was not yet a member and tell her from the pulpit that one day she would embrace this gospel. I remember thinking that was rather forward of Paul to do. But by golly, he was right. She did embrace this pathway to our Lord. She has walked it faithfully ever since.

She has the heart of a disciple, ministering and nurturing according to the whisperings of the Spirit. We have been on the receiving end of her graciousness too many times to count. She is gentleness and kindness personified. If you’ve ever received one of Kathy’s pecan pies, you would have tasted her love. Its divine.

In December, before my concert, she called and asked if I wanted the strawberries she had picked from her garden and frozen for the winter. She knew I made jam to sell as a fundraiser for orphan children. When I make jam from Kathy’s berries I write a little “K” on the top, so I know this is the prime jam. In my mind’s eye I see her bent over in her garden, scrunched down there close to the earth, picking those tiny, sweet berries. These are not the big grocery store ones, with a hint of strawberry flavor. A bag of these little super flavorful berries is a trove of treasure. Kathy gives these things away freely.

Kathy and her precious daughter, Katherine.

Years ago, I spent ten days in the hospital with pancreatitis. Kathy was an administrator at Salt lake Regional Hospital at the time, the same hospital where I was staying. Every single day Kathy came to visit me. A sit-down-and-be-together kind of visit, not just an “I hope you’re ok. Bye.” pop-your-head-in kind of visit. Not that those aren’t a message of love as well. My heart cinched itself to her one day at a time during that stay. 

Recently Kathy had been feeling a lack of her usual energy, so she went to her doctor. Turns out there was an issue with her heart. It wasn’t the kind of thing that would work itself out. So, she and her medical team decided that surgery was the route she would take.

I asked her, as we both sat there in the first pew two weeks ago, if she had confidence in her doctor. She is an astute woman, has worked for a long time in the medical field, and she had done her research on qualifications. She had confidence in his skill. Still, something in her compelled her to ask for prayers.

And so, we prayed. She has been in the prayers Dave and I say together, in my private prayers, in our family prayers and our ward prayers.

She had the surgery Monday. Things seemed ok.

And then they didn’t. 

Because I’m in England and Ireland my sister Libby has had to keep me posted. It seems every worst-case scenario has happened. One night, from my hotel room in Cornwall, I spent into the wee hours sending individual texts to our ward members, calling them to prayer. If you know the people in this community of worshipers in the Somerset Ward of the LDS church, you’d know the response. I imagined little pierced holes of light above our neighborhood as prayers were sent up immediately.

Of course, we know there’s no arithmetic in prayers. I don’t think there’s an accountant up in Heaven counting the prayers then doling out blessings. We understand the Lord knows more than we do. What kind of God would we be worshiping if we thought we knew better than him? But we also know He has invited us to communicate with him, and to ask for the righteous desires of our hearts. So, we pray.

Sometimes we don’t like the answers.

Tonight, Holy Saturday, we entered Easter Vigil at Westminster Abbey in London. Every seat was filled, and then they shut the massive wooden doors. The only light was the moonlight streaming through stained glass windows. They lit the Paschal candle, then one by one that single candle passed its light to the hundreds of candles held by each person there. We watched as darkness gave way to a brilliant glowing light. The choir sang, with the angelic high soprano notes of young choir boys ringing with purity, echoing off the cathedral walls. The liturgy was spoken in beautiful British tones. Prayers were given. Eucharist was offered and received. As we followed along with each word of the two-hour service, we were struck by how much of the words, beliefs and practices of another religious path follows the religious pattern of our church. We are all united in Christ.

We stood together and spoke the Lord’s Prayer. We did not need to read it. Few people did. We all knew it.

There was a moment, just after 9 pm, when I felt a pulsing warmth. The choir sang a hymn where the choir boys carried the part of the angels, the basses held a solid deep melody, and the tenors and baritones owned their own melodies. They all overlapped, even with their different songs, in a passionate and beautiful harmonic musical dance. I raised my head, and watched as incense rose, up past the crowds, past the altar and the choir and into the highest chambers of the cathedral. I imagined at that time my friend Kathy’s spirit being released and flying to the Lord she loves. I felt a reassurance that this was a gift to her. She would not have to withstand what would have been a long and excruciating recovery. 

I am not very prone to tears, but they came tonight. Because while I rejoiced at her freeing flight, I also pictured a small grieving family clustered around her, begging her not to have to go, but knowing there was no stopping it. I’ve known her children since they were kids. I’ve seen them go through some tough times. I’ve seen them rise victorious. I’ve watched her bind herself to her beloved grandchildren. She knows their touch, and they know hers. Kathy is fine, I’m sure of it. It’s that little family who loves her and feels a need for her that needs our prayers now.

I can hear her, in my mind’s eye, calling down to us, “Oh my! This is amazing! Come look!” She will move through the gates of a heavenly garden and wonder at the fruits. 

I hear time in Heaven moves at a different rate than here, if there is such a thing as time. She’ll have visited with loved ones already there. She will wash her hands of the weariness of the world, and she will set herself to work. She’ll find herself tomorrow in a deep green patch of heavenly berries and will stand to stretch her spiritual back and turn, putting her hand up to shadow the abundant light. She’ll look a little more closely and see each of us coming. She’ll pull off her gloves and run to us, her hair floating behind her, “Oh, you’re here already?” Then her arms will be safely back around the people she loves.

I have no doubt of it.

If Kathy Oleson had any say in choosing the day she would die it would be perfectly fitting that she would choose the day before Easter to go. She would remind us that just as daylight follows night, so Easter Sunday follows that unimaginable Friday, and the heartache and questions that came with Saturday. She would be sitting with us on Sunday morning, fresh with the hope of new life, worshiping the Savior who made it possible for her, and all of us, to live again… with arms to hug, and lips to kiss, and hearts to beat one against another.

Kathy Johnson Oleson, who loved abundantly, remains beloved, and always will.