At the internment ceremony for Judy’s ashes this past Saturday, her daughter-in-law, Jamie Leigh, called Judy, “the mother of us all.” Pointing to relatives, Jamie-Leigh continued, “We are all the black sheep of our families and she took us in.”

My beloved friend, Judy Bissett, died on January 28 only 90 days after being diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer. During our last phone conversation on January 9, I once again told her how pissed I was that she was suffering so. Judy replied, “Anger can be good if you channel it to the right places, like your sunrises.” I paused, then said, “Stop being so fucking wise.” She let out one of her characteristic guffaws — a laugh that could fill a room; a laugh that could fill the broken hearts of black sheep everywhere, including mine.

I first met Judy about 15 years ago at a church I was attending at the time, and got to know her better when she became a regular commenter on my previous blog, Sassistas! Now defunct, that blog dished regular sass on what we called “the social soup.” Followers all had “sista” names. I was, for example, “Flannista” after my matron saint, Flannery O’Connor; Adrienne was “Matissta” after Matisse, and Judy was “treesta” because she loved, loved, loved trees. Before I met Judy, I never paid much attention to trees. Then she began her own blog focusing on birdwatching, and later began to draw the birds she saw.

Trees, birds, rocks, fossils . . . Judy loved all things Mother Nature. More profoundly, she knew how to be in nature, and taught me how to be in nature; namely, how to shut up and listen. Watch. Witness.

In return, I nurtured Judy’s love of poetry which I published frequently on Sassistas! For my birthday in 2012, she compiled all of the poetry I had published on Sassistas! into an album — which totaled 310 pages. The following year, she compiled another 100-page volume of Sassistas! poetry.

Then Judy encouraged me to volunteer teach storytelling to the First Graders in the elementary school where at the time, she was serving as Assistant Principal. I had taught storytelling in corporate America, but in First Grade?! It turned out to be one of the most gratifying experiences of my life. I can still see and hear kids exclaiming, “Good morning, Mrs. Bissett! Good morning, Miss Sharon!” Here, too Judy was mother to all.

One of the most enduring testaments to the beauty in Judy’s life is her best friend and common-law sister, Annie. After Judy retired, she and Annie traveled far and wide on “Old Broad” trips, initially in a van they overhauled for camping and later, flying and driving to and then hiking in places like Grand Teton National Park and Sequoia National Park. During their last trip together in October, they witnessed an eclipse from the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument in Utah. Facebook photos of their adventures reveal their sheer joy of hiking and being in each other’s company. In an October 14, 2023 Facebook comment, Judy wrote, “I have been fortunate to enjoy some incredible adventures since retiring.”

Judy announced her cancer diagnosis on Facebook as “an unexpected journey.” It was unexpected to all who loved her. Because she had taught me how to be in nature, I determined to dedicate my morning sunrise walks to her, texting photos and messages, “Here we are at Goose Pond!” or “This is the sunrise we saw together this morning.”

Responding to the above photo, Judy texted: “A perfect spot to meditate on my many blessings — the first of which is you bringing me on your morning walks! Love you!”

Before dawn on the day before she died, I visited Judy in her hospice room. She was now uncommunicative, nevertheless, I told her that we were going to witness the sunrise together. I stepped outside of her room, took a photo of a tree which Adrienne called, “the tree of life.” I then showed Judy the photo describing the mystery of the fog and mist of this “tree of life.”

Judy did not respond, but I knew she was there, listening. Watching. Witnessing. I knew she could hear Mother Nature’s music, a music that she believed would never be over. She knew that the silences of nature are never conclusions, but only pauses. She could hear the music of the Great Adventure that awaited.