To Live Is To Love and to Lose
written by: Rosella Sims
“2019,” he said, repeating it louder this time with urgency. “Rosella, it’s 2019! I haven’t seen you in 15 years. I really could use your support out here; I need a break.” I felt the urgency in Richard’s voice.
Richard and I had gone through seminary together in Kansas City, a challenging experience that forged a deep bond between us. We became best friends, a connection that no amount of time could shake. I knew that when he needed to talk, vent, or just breathe together, I would be there. “I hear you, Richard,” I replied. “Happy New Year! Let’s look at our calendars.”
We agreed to meet in spring since it was only a few months away, and we could make a side trip to Washington, D.C. during cherry blossom time. Richard was aware of my passion for flowers, and we shared a love for the arts that both Philadelphia and Washington, D.C. could offer.
A 7:10 AM departure meant I had to be at the airport by 5:00 AM. This nonstop flight was fine by me—I’m one of those early birds most people find annoying. It also meant fewer takeoffs and landings, which helped me manage my fear of flying. Years ago, I had taken a fear of flying course, as I was known for being a white-knuckle traveler. I was truly terrified! Whenever I flew, I’d sneak into the bathroom to let go of my nerves. During one flight, a senior pilot kindly sat next to me, willing to explain any bumps, mysterious sounds, or sudden ear pops. His calm reassurances made a difference, and I half-joked that I’d be fine if they’d let me sit in the cockpit on his lap.
Now, seated and buckled in, I was on my way to minister to my friend, who needed a little TLC. I was next to a lovely woman dressed in what appeared to be a silk running suit. “Hello, I’m Sarah,” she said as she buckled in. “Nice to meet you, Sarah! I’m Rosella. Looks like we’re both headed to Philly. Are you coming or going?”
“Going! This is my home. I’m traveling with my Art Enthusiast Club,” she replied. “We love visiting different museums around the country.”
“How fun!” I said, wondering what she did for a living to allow her so much time to indulge in her passion. “Are you married?”
“Yes, my husband’s a doctor at the University of Washington. It was a big decision, but we decided not to have children because of his demanding schedule, and I didn’t want to raise them alone.” I sensed a silent wish in her voice, a question lingering about whether that decision had been the right one. “But now I find that a life without family can be lonely. When we first met in college at UCLA, I was an art major. I’ve always loved the arts but never felt as talented as I longed to be. After graduation, I gave up my dream of being a famous artist to support Leonard while he attended medical school. I still paint, but mostly I admire other artists’ work now.”
Sarah looked to be in her mid-50s, an age that had been life-changing for me. “Well, it’s never too late to live your passion! I didn’t start seminary until I was 50,” I said, opening the door for a deeper conversation, one I was familiar with. People either closed off completely when they learned I was a reverend or opened up deeply, eager to share the burdens they had carried for far too long. In either case, I always traveled with Kleenex.
It felt like fate that we were seated together that day. I had lost my husband to cancer; she had lost hers to passion. I admired her courage because my fear of flying wasn’t just about heights; it was about traveling alone. After Tony died, I stepped away from my ministry, overwhelmed by the sudden void in my life. He had embodied so much life, and in four short months, cancer had taken it all away. I lost him on a spring day in 2017, and with him, I lost my career. There were too many responsibilities tied to running a church, and I could barely manage myself, let alone anyone else.
Here I was, sitting on an airplane all by myself with a woman all by herself, both of us searching for some new passion to reignite our lives. Maybe I could join her Art Club? Could I travel alone to cities just to explore art? This divine seating arrangement illuminated questions I needed to discuss with Richard. I realized I needed to see him as much as he needed me.
When I arrived in Philly, Richard greeted me with open arms. We were both thrilled to be together again. I had planned to stay for a week, so after a day of chatting, crying, and venting, he said, “There’s a market just two blocks away that I think you’d like. It’s the Reading Terminal Market; it’s been here since 1893.”
“That sounds great!” I said, feeling the exhaustion of my early morning travel catch up with me, although a surge of adrenaline buzzed in me from seeing my friend.
The next morning, I awoke to sunlight streaming through the sheer curtains and the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Rich had lived in Seattle during his time as a traveling nurse and had developed a fondness for its coffee, a love we shared. We planned our day together and set off to explore Philadelphia, and I could tell this was going to be an exciting adventure for me.
The market was incredible, spanning four square blocks. I could see why it was so famous and had remained popular for so long. It offered a rich tapestry of culture, especially in food—everyone seemed to love cheesesteak sandwiches! Although there were countless choices, the lines at every stand reflected people’s loyalty to their favorites.
“Would you like to try a cheesesteak?” Rich asked. “Of course!” I replied. “Just make it extra cheesy!” We both laughed, reveling in the delight of being together again. It was comforting to deepen our understanding of each other during this stressful time in our lives.
“There’s an empty table over there. Why don’t you grab those two seats while I get our sandwiches?” he suggested. I settled in, and within minutes, a woman carrying what appeared to be a bag of groceries asked if she could sit at our table.
“Sure!” I replied, noticing her heavy bag.
“Are you visiting?” she inquired.
“Can you tell?” I joked.
“Yes!” she chuckled, joining in on my playful banter. “I’ve lived here a long time, and I’m always surprised by how the market bursts with visitors. Where are you from?”
“Washington State. I just came to visit a friend who needed a little companionship, but I think it’s really me who needs it,” I admitted.
“Life can be crazy sometimes, can’t it?” she replied, sensing the shift in my life.
At that moment, something strange happened—at least, it struck me as strange. She opened her grocery bag, pulled out a gallon of milk, and placed it on the table. Unscrewing the cap, she tucked it into her apron pocket. Then, tilting her head back, she began drinking directly from the jug while sitting in the bustling market.
I watched her in disbelief, numerous thoughts racing through my mind. Who was this woman? We hadn’t exchanged names—just a few words. As I observed her more closely, I noticed her plain clothing and grey hair styled in a bun atop her head. Was she homeless? She wasn’t buying food—just drinking milk in the middle of the busy market.
After what felt like fifteen minutes and a good quart of milk, she set the jug down, wiped her mouth with a tissue she retrieved from her sleeve, and, taking a deep breath, said, “Yes, life has a way of surprising us. I lost my husband, and now I’m doing life alone.”
Another widow! Another woman in the same club, each of us trying to make our lives count in some way. After a contemplative pause, I found myself locked into her gaze, finally able to voice the words that had long been stuck in my throat. “I’m so sorry! I understand all too well. I, too, am learning to navigate life alone. I left my career when I lost my husband, so it feels like a double loss for me.” With that, I laid my heart bare on the table.
Here we were, two strangers in a bustling market, connecting with our fractured hearts in a way that others might never comprehend unless they were also in the club. “It’s been a while for me,” she said. “But you’ll find your bearings; it just takes time for the hole to heal inside.” Her hand rested over her heart as her eyes glistened with tears. “You’ll find a purpose again, believe me.”
Who was this woman? I believed her! Somehow, I felt a connection. In many ways, we were alike.
Richard joined me at the table, both of our eyes filled with tears from the heartfelt conversation we had shared. When I went to introduce them, I realized we hadn’t exchanged names. “I’m sorry! I guess we forgot to introduce ourselves. I’m Rosella,” I said, extending my hand. She accepted it not with a handshake but with an empathetic understanding. “I’m Karen,” she replied.
After lunch, as Richard and I prepared to leave, Karen asked if I was on Facebook. She expressed a desire to connect because she felt a strong bond with me. “Sure!” I replied, a mix of nervousness and hope swelling within me as I wanted to continue this connection.
When we returned to Richard’s condo that evening, I had already received a friend request from her. Curiosity sparked; I accepted immediately. Karen was nothing like my initial assumptions had led me to believe. In her earlier years, she had been a renowned opera singer, having performed the leading female role in Puccini’s Il Tabarro under the celebrated conductor Maestro Bruno Rigacci in Lucca, Italy—the birthplace of Puccini. Now, she has directed the International Opera Theater in both Italy and Philadelphia, collaborating with artists from over 75 countries. She also owned “The Fire at Northern Liberties,” Philly’s oldest original music venue, where John Legend started his career.
There’s an old saying: “You can’t judge a book by its cover.” Both women I met on this trip have taken up residence in my heart. Both are my teachers, both profoundly different, yet all three of us long for the same thing: to connect to life, to know that we have lived, to know that we have loved, and to know that we have lost fiercely.
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