Tuesday, February 20th, 2024
I sat two rows behind Audrey at a morning service (called Matin’s) in St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin eight years ago and talked to her for 20 minutes after the service ended. She was in her 80s then, wore an old shawl, and was the most humble person I’ve ever met. The following post is a remembrance of her in this year’s January 23 journal entry.
I thought of Audrey today and the Lucy of Wordsworth’s poems. Both unknown, save for a very few. No wealth, no fame, no power, no notices when they died.
Perhaps one day Audrey was taken with pneumonia (I think she lived on the streets or in a desolate dwelling), hospitalized, died, and was buried in a pauper’s grave. Now she is in heaven with Jesus, the lover of her soul.