The Best Blessing

Comprehending the ways of God.

Atlanta, GA

August 7, 2026

We last saw my cousin thirteen years ago, when she hosted us at her house in Boston. She and her family couldn’t have been more welcoming.

We’d previously seen Moira years earlier, at our grandmother’s funeral. At that time, we’d not been together since we were kids. But I immediately lamented what I’d been missing. She was beautiful, charming, intelligent, and kind.

Our most recent visit reinforced those impressions. If anything, it amplified them. She was a delight, and her family wonderful.

A successful architect, Moira had a home that reflected the class and elegance of its owner. She greeted us with a glass of wine and a tour of the house. That evening we met her husband, Huard, and their children.

Their kids are about our sons’ ages, at that time a couple years either side of ten. They are, as their grandfather put it, “full of imagination, brains, good looks, and energy.”

Moira and I discussed our careers and whatever family history we could remember (and a lot we made up). She had opinions and was willing to share them, but always in her gracefully strong-willed way. I was often put in my place without realizing where I was. But I always laughed along the way.

Like his wife, Huard was knowledgeable, welcoming, and witty. Discussions of finance, history, politics, and travel accompanied our refills. It was great. After several hours, we’d cleaned plates, emptied bottles, and solved the remnants of the world’s problems.

We left their house intending to be better about staying in touch. But time passed, life intervened, and our best intentions drifted away… as they often do in the scattered society in which we live.

To my regret, I haven’t seen Moira since. We exchanged occasional emails. But distance and duties kept our paths from crossing.

Rita and I have been fortunate to see Moira’s father on several occasions. He lived in DC, and was a gracious host to us during years we made regular visits to Washington.

We loved visiting our Uncle Joe. He and his wife, Linda, couldn’t have been more hospitable. As a docent at the National Air & Space Museum, he took my flight-infatuated thirteen-year-old son on an extensive tour he’s not forgotten.

Joe is an impressive guy. He’s a phenomenal photographer who shares his impressions as he travels the world, which he’s done extensively throughout his life.

Culminating in the rank of Colonel, his career spanned several decades in the Air Force, including combat and extreme altitude reconnaissance missions in Europe, the Arctic, South America and the Pacific.

He was Air Attaché to the U.S. Embassy in Thailand, and later personally represented the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff at embassies in Asia, Europe and South and Central America.

He was Senior US Military Representative to France, and Defense and Air Attaché to the American Embassy in Paris. After his Air Force service, Joe joined the National Academy of Sciences and National Research Council, where he spent more than a decade managing and directing military, science, and aviation programs.

During his career Joe earned a slew of awards, including (among many others) the Legion of Merit and the Royal Order of the White Elephant from Thailand. He received la Médaille de Paris, and the President of France bestowed on Joe the Ordre national du Mérite.

By all accounts, my uncle has been amply (and justifiably) rewarded for exceptional work throughout his distinguished career. But he’d have traded every honor and accolade to save his daughter.

Her ailment isn’t kind. There’s no known cause or cure for amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), a neurodegenerative disease that progressively debilitates motor neurons that message the muscles needed to move, speak, eat, and breathe.

Moira received her diagnosis three and a half years ago. I was devastated when I heard it. I couldn’t fathom my lovely cousin enduring that awful affliction.

But she did so with dignity and grace. Why wouldn’t she? That’s how she did everything, with poise and character no illness can abate.

Moira was resigned to her situation, but not reconciled to it. As an architect, she’d developed a blueprint to fight her foe.

She had help. Her immediate family… including her loving husband, devoted children, and selfless sister… were indispensable blessings. For a couple years, I’d send Moira occasional emails to convey our prayers, but also to exchange news of what our families were up to.

One of her responses epitomized her optimism:

“… there is so much more research about ALS and many clinical trials in the works to target progression - and maybe someday a cure - than ever before…. The Healey Center, where I am being treated, is both the best clinic and research center in the country - and was also not around five years ago. I’m also very lucky to have gotten into a clinical trial that has solid science behind it.”

The clinical trial was lucky to have her.

Once Moira could no longer write, I’d send notes for her to read. Occasionally, Huard responded for her, while also giving welcome updates on her condition.

Needless to say, it wasn’t good. Being in Boston, and amid the steadfast family she’d done so much to form, Moira had some of the best care in the country.

But this infirmity is undefeated. More recently, I relied on updates from my uncle, with whom I regularly correspond. His latest came last night.

Moira died yesterday afternoon. She did so in her own bed, surrounded by her husband, children, siblings, father and Linda. After three years suffering steady deterioration from her dreadful disease, Moira finally found eternal peace.

The grandmother at whose funeral Moira and I became reacquainted thirty years ago went to Mass religiously, every day. To her, prayer was essential, not incidental; a steering wheel, not a spare tire. She didn’t pray only when needed. Prayer was always needed.

When horrible things happen, it’s easy to second guess the ways of God. I think we all do. I’m doing so now, even while knowing it’s pointless and impossible. As the former Monsignor at our church once put it, “God wouldn’t be God if He were God the way we would be God if we were God.”

Like a spray of foam trying to assess the sea, we can’t know why God does what He does. All we can do is trust His guidance and beseech His blessings.

Yesterday Moira received one. She’d done all she could, and had suffered enough. Embodied in the daughters and son who were beside her bed, her life endures in the legacy she left.

Maybe that’s the best blessing.

JD