Tribute to my Sister Judy
A Tribute to Judy – My Only Biological Sibling
September 19, 1965 – June 1, 2020
I could not have imagined that I would be writing a second tribute so quickly. One month after Dad left this world to meet Jesus, my sister Judy followed suit. Given her love for Dad and her deep torment in recent years, it is a mysterious mercy that she waited until after Dad’s departure (as not to inflict him) and then joined him so quickly. I am not making a theological nor biological statement about death but thinking of the mercies of our God.
Judy was five years younger than me. Though born into the same family, birth order and personality put us on a different life trajectory. I will celebrate the good of her journey and be honest about the sadder part. I do both that her legacy might include healing for others who experienced the same wounding that she experienced in life.
Judy had a gentle and soft inner person. Though she could freely talk with others, she was really an introvert. She devoured books as a young child. She had the burden of growing up in the Bee Gees era, but this did not spoil her music integrity as she became a connoisseur of classic rock. Though disco and the 80’s version of rock and roll would leak into her playlists she knew more lyrics and could quote name of song and band of the classic rock era quicker than me.
Judy found a faithful earthly partner in Glenn. They worked together for healing. Glenn as a cardiologist took care of the physical heart. Judy as counselor addressed the wounded heart. As I have observed the case with many counselors, I think she was trying to speak to her own wounded heart.
Her heart pushed her toward the marginalized. The girl who grew up with a monocultural, midwestern, suburban and protected life, crossed boundaries. While in graduate school, she developed an inner-city children’s program in Mississippi. Then in her first official counseling position she cared for at extreme-risk adults while living in California. She took on the hard cases and even the dangerous ones.
As my younger sister by five years, Judy had the privilege, and maybe the burden, of my protection in the early years. When we needed an extra football player in the backyard, she would be on my team. We would hand her the football on a running play but nobody could get close to tackle her as I was the lead blocker.
Bullies had to pass through me. So her experience in our new town was different than mine.
But there was one bully that I could not help her with. It was an internal bully. She had a strong mother wound. And even though as a counselor she could help others forgive and move on from some of their wounds, she could not get there herself. As an adult, and due to birth order and personality, I was able to forgive and move beyond my Mom.
Sadly, when we moved to another continent all the wounding of my mother was poured out on my sister. Her inner person had a harder time creating margins from the abuse. She could not forgive Mom. Slowly the bitter root squeezed out the vibrancy of life in Judy’s own heart. I really believe that she was tormented because she wanted to but could not get there. We spoke of it multiple times and Judy would remind me that this what she helped others do.
Why tell this part of the story? Why not just remember the good? Because I believe that our greatest points of legacy might be the ways in which we create space for others to heal and flourish. What if in hearing Judy’s story, someone gets permission to forgive and move on? Even if they cannot do it for the other person or themselves, maybe for the sake of their spouse, their children, their friends.
Given all the good that Judy did while on earth, what if her greatest contribution is a posthumous invitation to forgive those that have wounded us and find our hearts free again to experience the vibrancy that God designed them to beat with?
So with that invitation I turn to memories that make me smile.
The day Judy was brought home from the hospital in our little post World War II box of a home in Parma, Ohio.
The spunk of little Judy that gained her the nickname “fireball” by “Uncle Gene” next door.
The idol breaking Judy, who fell off of the couch onto my electric football game (1968 Browns and Giants uniforms), leaving a dent on the 20-yard line, so that all the players congregated from that time forward at that one spot of the field as the game vibrated. I would have spent too much time playing with that game if she had not dented my idol.
The curiosity of Judy that caused her to devour books late into the night as an early elementary student.
The many Emergency Room visits of Judy through stitches and broken bones because of homemade forts out of cardboard boxes on the driveway and runaway swings. She outdid me in hospital visits, 5 to 1.
The marching band and cross-country Judy, both stretches as she was not really musical nor athletic. But she found community and a sense of fulfillment in each.
The friend Judy, who found her most sane times in her friendship with Connie across the street. Connie was the safe sister that Judy never had at home.
The brave Judy, who during my senior year of high school, sat in the passenger seat of my VW bug all the way to Pennsylvania, as I drove with a cast from a broken arm. I’d shift with my right hand and steer with my knees.
The loyal to Nyack College Judy, who carried her family’s alma mater in her own heart as both student and admissions counselor, and later on the alumni board.
The counseling Judy whose heart broke for the marginalized and broken.
The wife Judy, who found her servant confidant in Glenn.
The aunt Judy, who delighted in her nephews and nieces, and even got as excited as a grandparent when they began having their own kids.
The sister Judy, who welcomed a recently hit-by-a-car-going-55-mph brother to California, with a tempest sailing venture on San Francisco bay and tickets to see the Giants play baseball [the sailing about launched me into the bay but it was worth it to have the memory!).
The daughter Judy, who made sacrifices and was insistent on getting Dad home to the Strongsville homestead so that he could die with dignity and at home.
The coronated Judy, who is no longer tormented in the presence of her Savior. Free at last!
We celebrate you Judy. We are becoming who we are because of our time with you on earth. May your legacy grow as we live as agents of forgiveness and healing in this world, as an overflow of your story.
