Ellen May

Ellen May

Her entire name is Ellen Frances Warner. 

"Oh, FRANCES!" I tease her in the kitchen of the Kearney State cafeteria where we both sling hash for our fellow college students.

It's 1973, and Ellen and I are brand new freshmen working hard for our humble educations. Standing side by side over hot food warmers, we immediately hit if off and discover we share unusual similarities.

She's from Greeley, she tells me, and the youngest of ten children.

"I'm the oldest of ten!" I crow in amazement.

We discover that our birthdays are in April and that we've both grown up in big, devout Catholic families where memorizing the Act of Contrition and the mysteries of the Rosary is mandatory.

Breezy Ellen is beautiful, kind and fun and makes those long hours at Slaters Cafeteria pass quickly.

After college graduation, armed with our hard-earned teaching degrees, I'm delighted to learn that Ellen has secured a job at Northwest High School to teach special education. In the weird way our lives seem to run on parallel tracks, I'm teaching English across town at Central Catholic. Occasionally, we face each other down as the junior varsity volleyball coaches of our respective schools. The rivalry is friendly but intense. 

From left: Ellen, Cathy Betz and me

One day out of the blue, Ellen calls and asks if I'd be interested in renting a house together along with her bestie Cathy Betz - an English teacher at Northwest. I accept, and the three of us move in together. Betzie mows the lawn, Ellen cooks, and I take an occasional swipe at cleaning. One summer we fly to Reno together to play slot machines, take in some shows and even drive up to Lake Tahoe to tour the set of "Bonanza", our favorite TV show from the 60's.

"SEE THE USA IN A CHEVROLET!" we bellow and sing loudly as we drive up the mountain to the "Bonanza" house. It's the old familiar jingle that always introduced Ben Cartright and the boys. We giggle and feel like ten-year-olds.

Eventually Ellen decides to marry her boyfriend Chris May, and I am at the same time planning my wedding to John Howard. Our lives as single girls are ending. One afternoon, for whatever reason, Ellen and I reflect on the new chapters of our lives. How the discussion turns to faith, I cannot recall. What I have never forgotten, though, is Ellen's explanation of her prayer life.

"I only pray that I'll always have the strength to endure," she says quietly.

Me, left, and Ellen

Speechless, I feel both moved and ashamed. My own prayer life has essentially amounted to a grocery list: Please God, get me all the things I want. Here was my young friend Ellen Warner, however, asking only that God give her the strength to navigate the struggles of life.

That summer of 1984, Ellen and I celebrate our respective weddings a month apart. Two years later we're dumbfounded to discover both of us are pregnant and due at the same time. My son Kenny Howard is born September 23rd, and Amanda May arrives two days later on the 25th.

At Saint Francis Hospital, a nurse informs me that Ellen's room is just a few doors away. In my socks and hospital gown, I first pad down the hall to the nursery to check on the new additions. My Kenny thrusts a long arm up as if to acknowledge me through the glass window of the nursery. His poor head is noticeably oblong due to his tight descent down the birth canal. He doesn't have a single spear of hair, but to me he's the most beautiful human in the world. Tiny Amanda, a row away in the busy nursery, is perfect with her sweet round head, dark hair and rosebud mouth. She's a miniature of her lovely mother, and I can hardly wait to see Ellen.

"Do you have to copy every single thing I do?" I burst into her hospital room and reach down to hug her.

Ellen, left, and Cathy Betz

She laughs. "Why should you get all the attention?"

Our joy is incredibly short-lived. Just 15 days later, Ellen's little Amanda will die of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS). Ellen discovers tiny Amanda lifeless in her crib and begins desperately to revive her. It is too late. 

All of us who know Ellen and Chris are devastated. Stunned, I hold Kenny close to me. Only two weeks old, he is absolutely essential to John and me. We love him beyond reason, and I cannot imagine life without him. 

When I knock on Ellen's door the very next day, I am hardly a bastion of support for my beautiful, grieving friend. Instead, as is typical, Ellen is the strong one. We clutch each other and weep. Eventually she shows me Amanda's little room with the rocking chair, the changing table, and the empty crib. The small, hollow room is gutted with sorrow.

"Oh Ellen," I sob, "I'm so sorry."

"No," she smiles through tears. "This room comforts me. I feel close to her."

A few days later, my giant of a father will accompany me to little Amanda May's funeral. Dad loves Ellen, too. At Northwest High School she's my youngest brother Jeff's Special Ed teacher and successfully coaxes him to rise to the difficult challenges of his life.

"Jeff's doing fine, Mr. Brown! Don't worry!" At parent-teacher conferences, Ellen constantly assures my dad - an overwhelmed widowed father of ten trying to do his best for Jeff. 

Ellen and Chris, center, with kids from left: Andy,
Nick and Andrea

Dad and I, at the rear of the funeral home, see Ellen and Chris bend over their beautiful but lifeless little Amanda in her tiny coffin. Their heartbreak pierces us, and my huge father snuffles loudly, desperately attempting to contain his tears.

This, I think, has always been the essence of my friend Ellen's most fervent prayer - possessing God's terrible strength to endure the impossible.

Two months later as Christmas approaches, I know with certainty that Ellen is enduring the impossible when I see Christmas lights strung around the roof of their house on Canon Road. I breathe a prayer of thanks for Ellen's faith and hope.

Ellen, top right, with seven of her nine 
siblings in 2014

Amanda's little room doesn't remain empty for long. In the years that follow her baby's death, Ellen gives birth to first Andy and then two more small siblings - Andrea and Nick. Like their parents they possess beauty, intelligence and athleticism. The three little Mays grow and flourish. My friend Ellen is a happy woman. We speak occasionally of Amanda, and I send a card most years. Ellen is not a girl for dwelling on unhappiness. She seems to have made her peace with Amanda's death and is once again her usual, serene self.

We're both busy parents, and while we don't see much of each other, I always look forward with glee to Ellen's Christmas letter with her own unique poem about family life at the Mays'. In addition Ellen's sisters Ann and Nancy send their children to Central Catholic. Eventually, we teach Nancy's grandchildren, too. Those Wieck and Dvorak kids are some of the best we've ever taught.

Ellen and Chris - center - with kids
and grandkids

Ellen's older son Andy - one of the finest boys and young men John and I have ever known - now has three children of his own with his beautiful wife Amy. Amy is our young fellow teacher at Grand Island Central Catholic. She and Andy have become like children to us through the years, and John and I love them both.

It's the same old story - Ellen's life seems to overlap with mine and mine with hers. Even when we don't see each other for months and months at a time, the people I love and who Ellen loves are constantly intertwined with us and each other.

The truth is, I think of Ellen almost every day. On the familiar route I've walked these many years through the Grand Island cemetery, I always pause at one special tree-shadowed corner. It's the grave of Ellen's little Amanda. Though I have never come upon Ellen at her little daughter's resting place, I observe the fruits of her labor over the changing seasons. The gaily wrapped Christmas package that lay close to Amanda's stone during these long winter months is now replaced by soft, spring finery. 

"Hello, Amanda!" I call out as I pass every day. Always I say a prayer. Next year it will be 40 years since Amanda's death. I can hardly believe it and often wonder what the adult Amanda would look like - very much like Ellen, I'm certain.

I'm especially remembering Amanda because tomorrow her own beautiful mother is celebrating 70 years on this earth. Everybody tells you the years pass quickly in old age, but I simply reject the fact that it's been more than 50 years ago since Ellen and I were scooping mashed potatoes together at the Kearney State College cafeteria. Her children are planning festivities and a family gathering for the big day tomorrow.

Ellen May is still beautiful and fitter than ever. She golfs, runs around like a kid with her grandchildren, and still radiates a serenity that comes from a life-time of faith and surrender. We are the same age - sweet Ellen and me - but she is a superior model of faith. I want to be just like my friend Ellen Frances Warner.  

Happy birthday, Ellie May. May you be surrounded by three generations of family who love you, and may you feel the closeness of Amanda - tomorrow and every day!