Recently I was going through some old files in the garage from Janet’s probation office, and I found several thank you cards.
They all said pretty much the same thing. They appreciated her help to become better people when most of the world would rather throw them in prison. These were not likeable folk—sex offenders, spouse abusers, petty thieves, drunks, drug addicts—but she made them feel accepted and liked. Sometimes they went back to prison, but they never blamed Janet. They knew she did everything she could to help them, but they didn’t do enough to help themselves.
Now these were something I wanted to keep for a while. Most people want to be remembered for making money. Janet is remembered for mending souls. But by the time I had finished and tossed a bunch of junk in the garbage cans and rolled them down to the curb, I could not find those cards. I thought I had carefully set them aside, but I hadn’t. I’ve often said I’d lose my head if it wasn’t tied on.
After going back over every place I could have placed the cards, I finally made peace with myself, like I think I have made peace that cancer took Janet away. I did not need those cards to prove what a wonderful compassionate person she was. I know it. All those probationers knew it. That is what is important.