The following was written by Melissa Thomas-Brumme, a friend of Emily's.


I never met anyone like Emily. For one thing, there was the intensity of her listening and the enormity of her caring. When Emily asked how you were doing, it was like the world fell away and it was just the two of you, and there she was listening intently.

There was something about Emily; maybe it was her vulnerability and the pain she had experienced, that made it very easy to tell her how I felt about her. I felt comfortable to say sweet things, even sticky sweet things that I don't even necessarily say to my husband or other people. Every text was an opportunity to think up a new pet name: peaches, sugar pie honey bunch, sweet pea, angel. And especially I love you. When Emily died, there was nothing needing to be said that hadn't been said many times over. 

Emily told me often that I am loving, kind and beautiful, and, if those things were there, it was because she drew them out. Emily looked into people and saw the good, and because she saw it, it was there. To translate that into Quaker speak, Emily walked over the earth seeing that of God in everyone. Emily looked for the good, and it was always there. 

Emily was no Pollyanna. She was well aware of the darkness in the world, which she battled professionally, and she had her own personal darkness to battle too. But at the end of her life she was fond of saying that love is the only thing that matters. Emily knew that love is more powerful than darkness, and that the darkness will never, never overcome love, because love always wins. 

Postscript: Shortly after Emily's death, I came upon a quote from Victor Hugo: Whatever causes night in our souls may leave stars. That's Emily down to the ground. Every painful thing in her life made her more beautiful, and she used every hard experience to create more love and beauty. Rest well, sweet pea, beautiful angel, our shooting star.