My friend Margie Weiner died of cancer Tuesday, not yet 60 years old.

Margie was a kid when I first met her, working for — sometimes against — the ineffable David Swit. David, although my dear friend (and ski buddy), was (in)famous for bullying his staff — except for two: Karen Harrington and Margie. Both these redoubtable women told David where to stick it on a daily basis, but it wasn’t only that: Without Karen, everyone would have walked off the job; without Margie, the money would have stopped pouring in.

Margie went on to become marketing director of many more companies in what used to be the newsletter business (now we call ourselves the “specialized information industry”). Then Margie started running companies — Food Chemical News, American Lawyer. She was smart, sharp, fast on her feet; a little bitty thing, but tough enough when she had to be. One of her eulogizers used the word “capable” to sum her up professionally, and that she surely was.

She was impatient with incompetence but encouraging where she saw promise. She’d knock herself out for you — not for payback but because you were her friend. She was funny, she was chummy, she made you feel good. It’s not surprising she had hundreds of friends, not surprising that she became president of our trade association (then called the Newsletter & Electronic Publishers Assn. [NEPA], now the Specialized Information Publishers Assn. [SIPA]).

Margie and Larry fell in love when they were kids and were still in love Tuesday when she died. When I saw them several months ago, Larry was on compassionate leave from his job but facing having to return to work Jan. 1. As I watched him take care of her I thought, ‘This guy isn’t going back to work as long as this woman is breathing,’ and he didn’t.

Margie and Larry have two kids, Sam and Alexis. Sam spoke at length this morning, happy and funny as he recalled his happy, funny mom the way she’d like to be remembered. He lost it a bit at the end, but who wouldn’t? Alexis, through her grief, could speak only briefly.

Sam and his wife are expecting their first child in a few weeks. Margie had wanted to live to see this first grandchild. She’d wanted to visit Israel this spring too. When I saw her, frail and head-scarved but just as funny and upbeat as ever, I was pretty sure she’d accomplish both things. But she didn’t.

Margie and Larry were Jewish and observant. I’m Jewish and not observant but, as anyone who’s read my novel TO LOVE MERCY knows, I’m sure interested in religion. One of the things I’ve thought a lot about in recent years is God, or more specifically, the idea of God.

I used to think there was no God; then I realized that what I REALLY thought is that there is no personal God. That is, God isn’t paying attention: He or She (or It) doesn’t know what I’m doing, nor anyone, nor cares. No rewards for good behavior, no punishment for bad, no answered prayers, no eternity of harp-playing above the clouds, no end to man’s inhumanity to man. For most of us, once those things are gone, God’s gone, but that’s OK with me. Of course He/She/It exists, if you say so. Now can we stop arguing about it?

But every now and then I feel the touch of magic in my life and I think I see the hand of God. My kids, both adopted, but so much in tune with me that they must be my True Son and Daughter, the kids God meant me to have. My wife Carol, who loves me when I least deserve it and whose patience and understanding are without end. How can such luck exist but for a caring God? wonder I. Maybe such God-thoughts are just my Sunday-School training, implanted at such an early age that I’ll never rationalize my way out of it. But then I think, So what if they are? Haven’t I reached an age where it’s OK to be inconsistent if I want?

Margie was buried this sunny bright March morning in a pine box, its sole ornament a Star of David. The body returns to the dust but the soul finds its way to be rejoined with God, the rabbi said, and as I stood looking on with hundreds of Margie’s friends, that seemed right enough to me. There may not be room for a kazillion harp-players anywhere — not even Heaven — but there certainly ought to be room in an infinite and eternal God’s heart for Margie’s soul, and mine and yours and everyone else’s too.

Frank Joseph
www.tolovemercy.com

P.S. Margie’s family is establishing a scholarship for marketing students. You can help it along with a tax-deductible donation to the Specialized Information Publishers Foundation, http://www.sipaonline.com/Foundation/SIPF_mission.htm

P.P.S. My friend David Swit, mentioned above, himself died several years ago of idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis, a hardening of the lung tissues without apparent cause for which the only cure is a lung transplant. David died young too, just a few years into his 60s. David could drive you nuts (especially if you worked for him) but he had kick-ass news instincts and his generosity, kindness and good fellowship to others was legendary. Like Margie, he also was a president of NEPA. David was more serious about having fun than almost anyone I’ve ever known. His watchword was: “Life is uncertain. Eat dessert first.” Fortunately for David and the rest of us, he did.

P.P.P.S. TO WALK HUMBLY, sequel to TO LOVE MERCY, is half-plus-three-chapters-written. Going way slower than I’d like, but I think some of it is pretty good. No way I’m going to meet my April 1 completion deadline, but at least I know where I’m heading.