I slept in my own bed last night, and it felt like a small, decadent luxury.
For two weeks my husband and I were away, traveling as part of our work with the camp where we live and serve. I’d pre-scheduled blog posts about our recent Attic Room Makeover, so the site kept updating while we were gone. On the final leg of our trip we received news that stopped us in our tracks: a very special woman had passed into her heavenly home.
Her name was Margaret.
Margaret was the same gracious soul who hosted that Miraculous Tea Party and who inspired the art many of us remember. She was 96 years old when she went home.
As I begin to absorb this new reality, I find myself remembering so many moments with Margaret, and listening again to how others describe her life. The pattern that emerges is one of devotion, service, and quiet strength. She was a woman who:
- served tea and offered short, meaningful sermonettes
- gripped your arm and met your gaze with warmth and conviction
- knew her mind and spoke it plainly
- read aloud to her husband on evening boat rides around the harbour
- substituted vinegar for eggs in recipes when needed
- gardened, canned, and preserved food for the seasons
- grew flowers and proudly displayed them on her countertop
- loved to teach and play Battleship with young people (and often, it seemed, won)
- served and loved others alongside her husband for more than sixty-five years
- and so much more, lived out in practical ways each day
Her life changed the lives of many—and mine included. Margaret and her husband founded the camp where my husband and I now live, work, and invest our lives. Without their vision and obedience, my path would look very different today.
Her influence ripples outward in ways both large and small: in traditions carried on at the camp, in meals shared with neighbors, in the small acts of hospitality that became a model for others. Remembering her invites gratitude for the practical expressions of faith and care that shape communities.
Thinking about Margaret also leads me to consider how I want to be remembered. That is a sobering question. At times I measure myself against remarkable people like Margaret and feel my own shortcomings sharply. But one truth stands out: Jesus doesn’t ask us to be copies of each other. He invites each of us to be the person He created us to be—unique and individual, shaped by our own gifts, opportunities, and calling.
What He does ask is that we seek His wisdom and live intentionally for Him day by day. Margaret did this—she lived life on purpose, with purpose, for something greater than herself. Her faith showed up in small domestic routines and in generous investment in the lives of others.
I want to live that way too: to show up for people, to offer hospitality, to be steadfast and kind, and to steward whatever gifts and responsibilities I’ve been given. Grief and gratitude are mixed together right now, but both point me toward the same resolve—to live with the sort of quiet commitment that marked Margaret’s life.
Her legacy is not only in the camp buildings or in stories told at reunions; it lives on in the choices people make to serve, to love, and to carry forward a humble, faithful life. For that, and for all the lessons she quietly taught us, I am deeply thankful.
