Several months ago, when our oldest son was in the hospital for surgery to remove a malignant mass from his body, Jane showed up in the hospital room—as a pastor-priest, yes, but more so as a caring personal friend, a mother who knew what it feels like to see one of your children threatened, and a wonderful human being. She showed such respect for his feelings; her concern for him was transparent. No surprise, this was Jane Holmes Dixon wherever she found herself, whatever she was doing, whenever someone needed her.

         A few years ago, in my sermon for All Saints Day, I talked about Jane as one of my heroes—not just in faith, but in all of life. When I could finally speak after hearing of her death, I told Judy that I did not know anybody else as good as, and certainly not better than, Jane. “She simply was the best person I know; it was a honor for us to be her friend,” I said. “There was no one else like her,” Judy said. Jane would have protested vigorously and been uncomfortable, but it would have been one of the few times in her life that Jane Holmes Dixon had been wrong.

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