On December 3rd, my cousin, Carol Sue Kaufmann, died. She was 84 and some would say that’s a plenty long life to have lived; but if you knew her, you would think, as I do, “Gone too soon.” She fought a round with cancer in the past couple of years, and it took its toll on her, as it does, but previous to that, if you met her, you might think she was my age—or younger. (I’m 68.) She was full of life, full of energy, bore a face with few wrinkles and a head of still mostly blonde curls, and formed the nexus of the somewhat fragmented, argumentative, difficult group of human beings that is our west coast family.

Even as little as three months ago, she was still “running errands,” seemingly her primary occupation (and secret delight, I believe), knitting stuff for other people while watching truly sappy Hallmark movies, and keeping up with legions of relatives and friends via her all-day phone-call Wednesdays, when she checked in with everyone—our 87-yo cousin Toni in Texas, her (remaining) best friends from high school and college, her half-siblings and step-siblings, the parish priest—you never knew who she’d be on a call with next.

I have known her since I was six or seven, when she came out from Boston to finish up college at Berkeley. Every time she started dating a new boyfriend, she would bring him down for an approval weekend with my parents and me (we lived in Riverside) and we’d barbecue out on the back patio while Mom and Dad (Aunt Bernie and Uncle Joe to Carol Sue) would grill the poor guy on his intentions. Eventually she moved down to Los Angeles, met a widower with a darling two-year-old daughter, and tied the knot. They lived in Woodland Hills from around 1966 until death took them—her husband Walter about 10 years ago, and Carol Sue two weeks ago. They had three daughters—Karen, the toddler that “Cos,” as we called her in later years, married along with her dad, Heidi, and Kirsten—and three grandchildren—Harley (Heidi’s), and Lucas, and Lily (Karen’s).

Yesterday was her funeral. Cos converted to Catholicism when she married Walter, and remained a faithful support to St. Bernardine’s of Siena, the church at the bottom of the hill below their house, for more than 50 years, and that’s where we gathered for the mass. Although none of her daughters is religious (nor am I), the service was planned with Cos and her many friends in the parish in mind, so it was conducted by a priest and held all the songs, readings, and rituals one would expect. The best part, by far, however, was the eulogy that Kirsten delivered near the end, evoking some tears and a lot of laughter as she reminded us of Carol Sue’s habits and idiosyncrasies.

One of the things one does at Catholic funerals, apparently, is called an intercession (well, actually plural, because you do a series of them). The church coordinator sent some samples to Kirsten and asked her to write them and find someone to read them aloud, and Kirsten, frantic with all the preparations she was making for the service and the reception at the house afterwards, turned them over to me. I had been asking for a job I could do from home, since I’m no longer able to run the errands, clean the house, or do anything else beyond hobble about uselessly with my cane, so intercessions were it.

Even though many of the examples were overtly religious in tone, with lots about heaven and hell, salvation, the afterlife, and so on, we felt that these would not address the truth of Carol Sue. Instead, I found and followed some text that, while conforming to the tradition, was more humanist in nature.

After checking with the coordinator to see if a microphone could be brought to my seat, Kirsten also asked me to be the person to read them aloud during the service. And although they were preceded with the instruction to the attendees to “respond with ‘Lord, hear our prayer,” and I was required to tag on “We pray to the Lord” at the end of each one (that part I wasn’t anticipating), I felt like the rest covered the things we wanted to remember, so I will share them here.

For all those loved ones who have gone before us: May Carol Sue now be reunited with them in joy.

For all who loved Carol Sue and grieve her passing: May we comfort one another and experience healing in this time of pain and loss, and may we find delight in memories of her as we share with one another.

For our family: May we be inspired by Carol Sue’s continual embrace of us as members of a whole by honoring and being devoted to one another.

For her friends: May they know how much Carol Sue cherished them and held them in high esteem, and may they celebrate her by being the kind of friends to others that she was to them.

For the many in her community that Carol Sue aided with her words and deeds: May they be inspired to reach out and help others as she helped them, with compassion and acceptance.

Carol Sue had concerns for the future of our world. May we, like her, seek wisdom and discretion in the decisions we make for the well-being of our greater community.

We thank you, God, for the strengthening of faith, hope, and charity, and the promise of love and peace. May the darkness of death turn into the dawn of new life, and may the sorrow of parting become the joy of coming together again one blessed day.

It hasn’t quite sunk in yet that I won’t see her again. After the ceremony, everyone came back to the house and we ate and drank, watched a mammoth slide show of almost 300 photos from over the years, and told stories from her life and ours. I kept expecting her to stroll in from the other room, or call us into the kitchen to fetch and carry, or show up at the door with a plate of leftovers as we left. She could easily be on one of her many trips to Boston and be coming back in a month. But as time stretches out beyond that, it will become increasingly clear that she is no longer here to anchor the boat in which we are all adrift. When that moment of realization comes, I hope we can, as I wrote above, continue to be devoted to one another and thus provide a legacy that she may not have consciously intended but nonetheless did her best to create.