My dear friend Nancy Shoush recently passed away. We met when I was in graduate school; she was a cook at Rosie's Northtown Cafe, the restaurant where I waitressed, and a friend who had become one of the family to the owners and other workers at the restaurant. During my time there and in the years since, she became not only my friend, but also another grandma to me, writing me letters and calling frequently to check in, eager to hear about how I was and what was happening in my life, while sharing all of the news about the restaurant and the people there whom I love and who love me. She also, I'm told, kept all of them updated about my life; she kept us all a part of each other's lives.

And that's how Nancy was: she loved fiercely. When she decided to love someone, she grabbed ahold and didn't let go, loving them for the long haul. She was loyal and told people what she really thought. In our conversations, she would talk and talk, and then suddenly stop to ask a question about my life that was very specific, a question that referenced something I had told her in a previous conversation weeks or months before. She was the rare person who wanted to share about her life and also wanted to know about others'. Through her, I know more deeply how God claims us freely and for his own, that he delights in us and wants to know about the details of our lives, that he stays with us and doesn't have plans to leave. Through Nancy, I know better the way love is a healing power and that friendship is a gift to cherish.

Once, when I was staying with Nancy for the weekend, there was a bat in her house. She got a bath towel, went straight to the bat that was flying around, caught it in the towel, wrapped it up and threw it out the front door while yelling at it to get out. She had no fear, with everything under control. I stood, amazed at what I had just witnessed.

Recently, while I was reading Matthew 9:23-27, the way Jesus rebukes the storm reminded me of the way Nancy rebuked that bat. Jesus is so unconcerned with the danger of the storm that he sleeps through it; there is a courage that comes from knowing who he is and that he is someone who can take care of situations that seem less than desirable or are even dangerous. It struck me that after he tells the disciples they need to have deeper faith, he still does what they ask and gets up to "rebuke the winds and the sea." Then, there "was great calm."

I don't think Matthew means only the storm was calmed; I think he also means this great calm that came from knowing who Jesus was -- that he loved and honored them and was capable -- washed over their hearts and souls. This knowledge deepened the disciples' faith for greater things, helped them come to the faith Jesus called them into.

As we remember Nancy and honor her life, let us let her courage, loyalty and love remind us we belong to a God who is capable of calming every storm, a God who fills our hearts with peace.