26. A Peace that Surpasses All Understanding

Rita Ann Reilly LeBlanc
October 21, 1963 ~ February 5, 2014

This is the eulogy I gave for my niece Rita who died when she was 50. As it turned out, there was another chapter to Rita’s life that had yet to be written. That post will be coming shortly, but for now, I’d like to introduce you to my niece or, as we used to joke, my third sister.

Eulogy

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Last night, Father Arsenaux guided us beautifully through the rosary. His words were such a comfort. When he said that Mary accepted the news from the Angel Gabriel with complete trust in God, he was right — but it took her a minute. And when my brother Joe called on Wednesday morning to tell me that his beautiful, firstborn child had died, I could only think of Mary’s initial response to the angel’s news: “How can this be?”

I would like to share a passage from the fourth chapter of Paul’s letter to the Philippians, because it gives us a road map for how we might come to grips with this terrible news: 

Have no anxiety at all, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, make your requests known to God. Then the peace of God that surpasses all understanding will guard your hearts and minds … whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is gracious, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Keep on doing what you have learned, and received, and heard and seen in me. Then the God of peace will be with you.

I was eight years old when my niece Rita was born, and I thought it was very cool to be an aunt in the third grade. Of course, no one, in particular my teacher, Sr. Roberta Marie, believed me. “Sure, you have a niece…you’re an aunt…sure.” But I was, and it was cool.

First of all, it was cool because she was very funny, even as a little girl. She had that same infectious laugh that you all know. You may think she honed those practical joke skills here in Louisiana, but she was pulling those stunts long before she learned how to make good gumbo. Her dad, the original practical joker, taught her how to laugh and how to make everyone else laugh with her.

It was no surprise that, decades later, Rita and her dad gave little Andre and Emmet a box that contained an alligator’s head—and they videotaped the shrieks of terror that followed. They named the movie, “Swamp Monster.”

Rita not only liked to laugh at the funny things life brought her way; she liked to laugh at herself and share the joke with friends. Her girlfriends were such an important part of her life. On Tuesday, she responded to a group text from her friend Sara. Rita was rushing to get to school and accidentally sprayed her hair with sunscreen. She said, “Thank goodness, it’s pajama day.” She pulled her hair back in that signature pony tail and went to school. We all do dumb things, sometimes to ourselves, but not all of us put it out there and laugh about it for the rest of the week.

Another reason it was cool to be Rita’s aunt was her kind and generous spirit. She always remembered birthdays and found the perfect gift. Years ago, she sent a card to my daughter, Maeve, who has a December birthday. On the front there was a Santa Claus with a cake covered in birthday candles. It said, “Merry Birthday,” and on the inside, “and Happy Christmas, too.” 

She loved her pre-K kids. When I came to visit, she took me by her classroom and showed me the work they were doing. I was struck that each and every one of them was on her mind and in her heart, even when she wasn’t at work. She was always texting me pictures of the kids, so proud of them.

When Maeve was born, I knew there could be no better godparents than Rita and Andre. When we had her baptized, Andre Junior had just been born, and the three of them took the train all the way from New Orleans to Washington. That was the beginning of a wonderful relationship. Rita, Andre, and Maeve’s Louisiana cousins mean the world to her.

Rita’s handsome boys were the center of her universe. When St. Paul writes, “Whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is gracious, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise,” I think of them. And everything that was good and worthy in Rita lives in each of them. Their very lives will honor their mother every day.

Of course, the same is true for each of us whose lives she touched. Each of us carry her with us today. She wants now what she has always wanted: for all of us to be happy.

When she met Scott Romero, Rita called her sister Nina and said, “Come home from California. I’ve met the perfect guy for you.” Nina came home and met Scott. She liked him, and he liked her, but nothing happened. Weeks went by, then months. One day Rita and Nina stopped by the Ground Pati, and Scott was there. Rita marched up to Scott with Nina beside her and said, “Scott, you want to go out with my sister, right?” He said, “Yes.” And, “Nina, you’d like Scott to ask you out, wouldn’t you?” “Well, yeah.” “Pick her up at eight, Scott.”

There are other stories about Rita’s great spirit: stories about contraband coffee and white mascara and Rita standing on a police car in New Orleans at a Mardi Gras parade. Stories about a woman who gave all of us all of her self, every day. Some of those stories we won’t share here today, but they are the stories that will comfort us in the days and weeks ahead—in the years ahead. They will remind us that she is with us, and she still wants us to laugh when we think of her. A good friend told me yesterday that even a text from Rita could keep her smiling the rest of the day. Rita put her all into loving us, and now we are left to share that love with those around us. To be strong in her name. To be kind in her name. To be funny in her name.

Finally, it was cool to be Rita’s aunt because she had a strong and abiding faith. She found great comfort in that faith. It shaped who she was as a daughter, a teacher, a mother, a wife, and as a friend. She believed in the promise of everlasting life. And she knew that when mothers die too soon, they watch over their children and bring solace to their sometimes inconsolable loved ones.

In the Irish language when someone dies, you say, “Tá sí ar slí na firinne.” She is on the path of truth. Rita has embarked on that path. I still say, “How can this be?” But of this I am sure: she is, by now, firmly ensconced in heaven with her grandparents; and the pre-K cherubim are sitting quietly around her, awaiting instruction on when to start singing.