My dear friend Joan — Small Stories of a Big God

“Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God; believe also in me. My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you?” John 14:1-2 NIV

There she was. Sashaying down the aisle to the right of where I sat in my pew at church; petite and blond, black skirt short, sweater formfitting. Knee-high black boots, a beret perched at a jaunty angle on her head. A kindred spirit. We had not met, but I knew that I knew her well. I was in my early 40s, she must have been in her early 60s, yet she moved with the energy of a woman in her 30s. Poised, confident, strong. My introduction to Joan Christopher Quillen from afar. I knew, the moment I saw her we would become dear friends.

I don’t remember when we actually met. I just know I was drawn to her like a bear to honey, and she to me. Our spirits aligned. Our values were perfectly in sync. I was her biggest fan, and she mine.

She was one of those rare women who was larger than life. Wonderful smile, an easy laugh with a deadpan sense of humor, a good-natured wit, eyes filled with the joy of life, and a lovely southern accent that spoke of a distant time.

Early in her 30s, Joan found herself divorced with two young children to raise on her own. Somewhere on that road Jesus had shown up with his joy and his confidence and changed her life. Armed with a modest portfolio containing her drawings and a handful of examples of her writing she interviewed for a position in an advertising agency. She had no training and no experience. She walked out with the job which turned into a career. Picture here, the images of the stylish television series Mad Men set in the 60s. Insert Joan.

Just as Joseph found favor in Potiphar’s house, Joan found favor in the world of advertising. She was a writer, a creator and whip-smart. She flourished, eventually owning her own marketing agency. Along the way, she settled her son and daughter into a house she filled with love and then added her deceased brother's two children into her family. Take that in; a single mother raising four children while running a powerhouse career. And looking fabulous while she did it. And she did it well. All of it.

By the time I met Joan, she was organizing special one on one weekends with her grandchildren and she was trying to retire but her clients were protesting. Five days a week she was at the gym, Sunday at Church; Thursday nights at CBS where she became one of my small group leaders. Her new career was painting, and she spent hours upstairs in her studio, the oil of the pastels staining her fingers. Her passion for joining scripture with prayer was welcomed at The Good Samaritan Health Center where she spent hours and years praying for the least of these.

As the years continued to unwind, Joan did not. She remained focused on what was important in her life. Her energy was a constant, her joy steadfast. She was both delighted and delightful. She fluently spoke the language and the truth of her friend Jesus. She didn’t hold back on her opinions or her expectations. She would call me to account as easily and as matter-of-factly as she would praise me. I would protest, but I would take her words of caution to heart. Because she was usually right.

Armed with her perfect knowledge of grammar, Joan edited my book and then opened her living room for a book reading and signing. Dinner at Joan’s house was candlelight and service from her buffet with fine China and silver and wonderful conversation. And always dessert. Her den was cozy, a fire burning in the fireplace, and paintings she had collected stacked and hung to the ceiling. I sat on her back porch overlooking her Hostas listening to her adventures in Provence. I dug up Lenten roses from her front yard which now bloom in mine. My Wine and Wisteria party heralding spring didn't properly begin until someone called out, "Joan is here!"

When I called her concerned over her cancer diagnosis her response was, “Well, Georgia, I’m right next door to ninety! I have to go sometime!" Before we hung up, she confided if she was miraculously healed, she wouldn’t tell anyone; she was having too much fun enjoying all the attention.

If there has been an ongoing joke among our friends, it has been this: we all want to be Joan when we grow up.

Joan was received into her Father’s House this past week. I can imagine her light shines even brighter there.