A deep and ebullient spirit

When I stumbled upon the news Monday (on social media) that Gwen Ifill had died, something clutched my heart, and my eyes filled with tears. Although I’ve withdrawn from news programs because the substance and the standards have deteriorated so much, I could still count on PBS NewsHour if I wanted intelligent coverage. And Ifill was a good chunk of that intelligence.

I’d thought it a little odd last week when her co-anchor Judy Woodruff had started one of the broadcasts by saying, “Gwen Ifill is away; we hope to have her back soon.” Usually you hear that someone’s away on assignment, or vacation. This wasn’t that, and so it transpired. Ifill died Monday, age 61, from complications arising from endometrial cancer.

She’d been working almost right up until the end, because she was both a consummate journalistic professional, and because she loved covering politics. My least favorite subject.

Since her death, various configurations of friends and colleagues have gathered on PBS to talk about what a gift Ifill was to their profession and to their lives, how she enriched the existence of everyone around her. Here are some of my key take-aways.

David Brooks, of the New York Times, wrote this appreciation of her. Ifill was a PK, the daughter of a minister. Brooks writes that she, “told me that if she didn’t go to church on Sunday she felt a little flatter for the whole week. A spirit as deep and ebullient as hers needed nourishment and care, and when it came out it came out in her smile, which was totalistic and unrestrained.”

On NewsHour on Monday, one of her former colleagues said, “You could read a book by the light of Gwen’s smile.” He was right, as you can see from this photo that I stuck on my office door:

Since I did that, two of my colleagues have stopped by to thank me—they’d worked at WETA, where Ifill’s programs were produced. They hadn’t worked with her directly, but she’d still touched their lives. I repeated the “read a book” quote, and they both agreed. In each conversation, our throats were tighter than normal.

A couple of nights ago Charlie Rose interviewed Michele Norris, a friend of Ifill’s for more than 30 years. Her throat tightened, too, as she discussed the difficult days and weeks Ifill endured; very few people—colleagues or viewers—even knew she was ill, much less dying. Norris said something that stopped me in my tracks:

“She chose joy,” she said. Even at the end, she chose joy.

I’m sorry I never got to hear her laugh. Everyone says that laugh was something amazing. I’m also sorry I never got to hear her sing. Everyone says her singing was something to behold, as well. Based on her speaking voice and the wattage of that smile, I believe both statements.

And here's something else: the very act of me taping an Internet photo of her to my door gave me a connection with two people I'd only nodded and smiled to in the kitchen or the loo for the past ten months. A human connection of recognizing the gifts of kindness and steadfastness this woman gave to everyone around her.

We are all poorer for the loss of Gwen Ifill.