For three days, Nita was comatose, her respiration labored. After each wheezing inhalation, she held her breath for eight to twelve seconds. During those terrible seventy-two hours, I scanned the lines on her face, searching for some sign of pain or agitation. But her face was a pallid death mask—void of emotion. It was impossible to predict her state of being, and the unknowing was agonizing.
On Saturday, July 1, 2023, I awakened at 4:58 in the morning. I rolled onto my side to look at Nita and listen to her breathing. But there was nothing other than the faint ocean tide in my ears. I threw back the comforter and circled the bed. As I approached, my gaze was riveted to Nita’s face. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open. Her body appeared unmoved from the night before when I wished her sweet dreams.
My beloved—a guiding light, a cradle of wisdom, a sanctuary of righteousness—was gone. I kissed her on her forehead, her skin feeling cool on my lips.
There was no more to say. It had all been said before when Nita was still lucid. Between the two of us, she was my superior—peerless in her capacity to forgive when I held a grudge, to praise when I was unworthy, to love when my behavior was unlovable.
I stroked her hair and whispered, “Goodnight, my love.”
***
Over the next week, my thoughts remained uneasy. But on the eighth day, a small but precious miracle happened.
I heard Nita’s voice. Nothing audible—although I was mourning, I was not deranged. What I heard was Nita’s wisdom gently flowing in a steady and soothing stream of consciousness. These were her words to me:
- Be at peace. Don’t feel guilty or angry because you’re alive and I’m gone. Accept relief. There’s no virtue in flogging yourself.
- Know that you were the love of my life. That can never be stripped away.
- Take your time. Nothing has to be done immediately. Do a little each day and take time to rest. Other days will follow.
- Remember me, but do not let grief be your constant companion.
- Think about the reverence we held for each other: to become the best and most profound versions of ourselves.
- Take time to celebrate the beauty of nature, the gift of friendship, and the tenderness of silence.
- And just in case you were wondering, it’s not always about you. More often than not, it’s about the other person—his or her needs, doubts, and aspirations.
On a morning walk, I came across my neighbor David. He asked how I was doing.
“Things are strange in so many ways,” I said.
“I can imagine,” David said.
I told him about Nita’s voice.
David listened quietly and then said, “That must be comforting.”
I looked at David with a new understanding. “Yes. That’s exactly right. Her voice is comforting.”
***
It did not take long for me to write Nita’s obituary. Her life was a tender movie that played in my mind whenever I needed a lesson in grace and mercy. Her days on earth were indexed in my heart. I could select any scene at will.
***
Juanita “Nita” Johnson passed away on July 1, 2023.
Nita was born on January 26, 1945 in Guatemala. Her parents, John and Esther Astleford, were Quaker missionaries in Chiquimula.
Nita’s sole sibling was her younger sister, Margi Astleford Macy. Their education was scattered. They were home-taught in Chiquimula through Nita’s third grade and Margi’s second grade. From Nita’s fourth grade to seventh grade, the two Astleford sisters were schooled in the highlands of Guatemala at the Huehuetenango Academy boarding school. When Nita was to enter eighth grade, the two sisters lived with their aunt and uncle, Chet and Opal Finkbeiner, in Wenatchee, Washington.
Upon her graduation from Wenatchee High School in 1963, Nita attended George Fox College (now George Fox University), graduating with a BA in elementary education in 1967.
Nita taught kindergarten for the Kelso, Washington school district for four years. During that time, she met and fell in love with the Kelso High School speech, drama, and English teacher, Allen Johnson. They were married on Christmas Eve, 1968.
In 1971, Nita and Allen studied French at the University of Grenoble for one year. Then, for the next two years, the couple taught English as a foreign language at a mountain-village high school in Larbaa Nath Irathen, Algeria.
Upon their return to the States, Nita earned her MA in education from Seattle Pacific University in 1980.
From 1980 to 2001, Nita served as a reading specialist and the Director of the Migrant Program for Pasco, Washington School District.
Founded on her Quaker faith, Nita was known for her gentle, peace-loving spirit. She loved teaching, including mentoring younger educators. She was passionate about reading, birding, gardening, and rich conversations in English, Spanish, and French. Most importantly, she was unconditionally loyal to a wide circle of friends and family.
Nita was survived by her husband, Allen; her sister, Margi Macy; her brothers-in-law, Ray Johnson and Howard Macy; her sister-in-law, Jan Johnson; and a host of nephews and nieces. Although Nita befriended many, her closest friends included, but was not limited to, Marie Eubanks, Jeanne Hultgrenn, Alicia Izaguirre, Sharon Keefe, Shirley Lucas, Teri Perez, and—preceded in death—Susan Harrington and Cynthia Spilman.
***
Two weeks after Nita’s death, I found my attitude shifting. In the first week, I was numb, moving slowly, cautiously—like a vessel in creeping fog, navigating a craggy inlet more by sound than sight. But as the days drifted from one sunset to the next, I thought more about the times when Nita was raucous.
Anyone who knew my wife remembered her graciousness, her gentle spirit, her allegiance to decorum. But that was not the summation of Nita—not by a long shot. She could be shockingly scary. Those were the moments of reverie that delighted me the most.
After our Christmas Eve wedding, we drove to our apartment in Kelso, Washington. We were on winter break—a precious week to sleep in late in each other’s arms.
One night after dinner, Nita and I sat side by side, our legs outstretched over a pillowed coffee table. We were rereading our favorite novels, I engrossed in To Kill a Mockingbird, Nita revisiting A Wrinkle in Time.
I was in mid-chapter when Nita arched her back and said, “I’m ready for bed. Are you?”
I closed my book with a definitive smack. “I’m in.”
“Why don’t you warm up the bed,” Nita said, “while I slip into something more slinky.”
There was something salacious about the way she pronounced “slinky.” Oh my, what a single word can do.
I tossed Mockingbird onto the coffee table, peeled off my shirt as I entered the bedroom, and dropped my jeans in a pool of denim at the side of the bed. I slid between the sheets, felt resistance, and punched my feet into the tautness. Then, my eyes bulged as I felt something slimy squish between my toes. With a barbaric howl, I scrambled out of bed and fell on the floor, my spine hunched over my hands and knees. Only then I realized Nita had short-sheeted me, replete with a thick layer of whipped cream at the bottom of the hollow.
I looked over my shoulder to find my wife, the model of good manners and grace, chortling until overtaken by guffaws.
***
Those were the memories that invaded the solitude of my mind—the unexpected, outrageous moments of childlike glee. With each passing day, I realized I had more to cherish and less to grieve.
When do you say goodbye to a lifelong partner? The answer is “never.” You might as well ask me to say farewell to my eyes or hands. Impossible. Nita is no less attached to me. She will always be integrated into my soul—always the voice of wisdom, always the better part of me. Always my Nita.
