In the early 1990s when I was working at a Chicago law firm, my wife Nancy and I lived in downtown Chicago. While we were there, Nancy and I were involved in our local church, which met in Logan Square. Nancy expanded one of her church assignments to include staying in contact with a few of the congregants who were homebound. In particular, she looked after four widows, and I remember watching her write each of them a letter every week. We also visited them from time to time to offer our friendship and company. All of these widows were wise women and great teachers for us, but one really stands out in my memory. Her name was Enolar McNair.