Lucky Lilian

07Dec08

Last week, heaven welcomed a new angel. Her name was Lilian Carpenter – Lilian, Lady Carpenter to be precise, for that was what she was – a lady and an angel.

A couple of years ago when a long-standing Bahá’í – the possessor of many memories and experiences – was visiting London, I asked him if he had ever encountered anyone on his travels who radiated the kind of love and serenity that somehow magnetized their surroundings, so that one almost felt that unseen spiritual forces were being attracted into the room. He said he had, and proceeded to tell me of a woman he had known in California several decades before.

Then he turned and asked me the same question. “There is a lady who lives in Richmond, just south of the river, who has that affect on me every time I see her,” I replied.

“Shall we go and visit?” he asked to my surprise, as I had thought he would prefer to spend his precious few moments in London taking in the city’s art galleries.

We did, and she seemed delighted to see us. Lilian was sitting in her favourite upstairs dayroom, bathed in light filtering through the back window and immersed in the fragrance of fresh flowers which perfumed the air. She was surrounded by photographs of loved ones, including her grandchildren whom she adored. A small pile of her favourite poetry books was never far from her hand. She was dressed, as she so often was, in a pale, unassuming lilac jacket and skirt, and a head scarf which reinforced the sense of a person unconcerned with the vanities of this world. We received a warm and gracious welcome and an hour – perhaps more – of loving hospitality and uplifting conversation interspersed with recitations from her beloved Shelley. Time seemed suspended in the glow of the afternoon and her radiant presence.

Another memory of Lilian: I had known for many years that she was not in the best of health but was surprised and delighted when she arrived at the national Bahá’í centre off Knightsbridge for an open day during which we were giving people tours of the building and displaying some precious archives associated with the founders of our Faith. Lilian was too frail to make it up the stairs but we got her as far as we could using the elevator. It felt as if she belonged to the era that we were celebrating in our displays – and in a sense she did, for when she was born British servicemen were still falling in Flanders fields. Our nation’s shores had experienced the presence of  ‘Abdu’l-Bahá but three years previously. 

Since Lilian could not manage the journey up to the top room in which we were displaying our most precious artefacts, I decided to bring one or two of them down to show her. I particularly remember her reaction to a small square of thin paper containing the original handwriting of Bahá’u’lláh Himself. She held the silver box in which it is displayed in one hand and held her other hand over the script, eyes closed, as if she could tangibly feel power and spirit emanating from the ink.

Just a few weeks ago I received a wonderful handwritten letter from Lilian who had recently finished reading my book about Ethel Jenner Rosenberg. I hadn’t received anything in the post except utility bills for years so it was a great pleasure to open the envelope to find several pages of  notepaper, embellished with touching, eloquent accounts of the people she had met in her life, which included 35 years serving at Westminster Abbey where her husband was the Dean.

Lilian had searched hard to find spiritual truth and the life and character of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá particularly inspired her. She was fond, like He was, of children and flowers. She loved people, laughed with them and comforted them, and lived life to the full. And when the time had come to go, she was well-prepared. She had planned her funeral, asked for Bahá’í prayers, favourite hymns, music and poetry. She wanted a green burial and small posies of flowers to be buried with her.  As she gathered her family and friends around her in her final days to say goodbye, she told them not to be sad but to be pleased for her that she was going on a journey.

“Her open and free-spirited heart responded joyously to the call of Bahá’u’lláh, and she became a devoted follower of His Cause,” wrote the Universal House of Justice on hearing of her passing. “Among those who knew her she has left behind fond memories of a noble and deeply spiritual character.” 

Lilian said that she believed two things feed the soul – love and the scent of flowers. I remember both from my visit to her home that day, and from some years before when I was invited to gave a talk there when her husband, Dr Edward Carpenter, was still alive. It was an evening full of stimulating conversation and bowls brimming with flower petals. I recall leaving the house and thinking that  we still had much to talk about. “I feel that we have unfinished business,” I said to Dr Carpenter, and added, “That would be a good title for an autobiography.” He and Lilian laughed. 

But now Lilian’s business is all finished. She had said goodbye to her loved ones and faded away. “That she died happy, which I am sure she did, was ultimately because of her deep faith that we are Eternal Beings,” said her son-in-law at her funeral.  

As Lilian prepared to make her departure from this earthly plain, someone visiting her home had said sympathetically,  ‘Poor Lilian.’  Lilian heard and responded ‘Lucky Lilian.’ 

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