Editor’s note: The IJ is reprinting some of the late Beth Ashley’s columns. This is from 2007.

When my niece’s husband died in a car accident two weeks ago, we were stunned. We had no idea what to do.

Our best answer was to pile in our cars and drive to Roseville, where services were held last Sunday.

We had all known Frank James as the good-humored father of five children and husband of my precious niece Charlotte. He was also a painter and actor.

We had only a vague idea who he actually was.

We were amazed to arrive at the Roseville church to find 1,000 people already there.

Frank James, it turns out, was a pillar of the Valley Springs Presbyterian community, ministering to hundreds of parishioners even though he wasn’t their minister.

He put on church pageants, counseled seniors, led weekly Bible study, visited the sick in hospitals and trained lay counselors. He also ran the church’s art gallery and helped out at Sunday services.

He had been a Christian believer all his life.

My family tends to be agnostic, wary of the destructive acts performed throughout history in the name of Christianity.

The service was laced with “hallelujahs” and references to Jesus, the gospel and salvation.

There was lots of singing, a half hour of biblical readings. All touched on areas of faith that most of my family had left behind, but inside the church, the spirit was powerful indeed. Charlotte’s children — I remember some of them as toddlers wearing “Jesus Saves” T-shirts — seemed sad, yet deeply comforted.

The sadness was relieved by a string of humorous testimonials from his children and friends.

A slideshow of his life showed Frank in many guises — as father, husband, actor and funny man for the camera. Pictures of him making wild faces had everyone laughing.

Better still, in almost every picture he had his arms around his wife and children, a man who knew how to give and take affection.

After the service, dinner was served. We have all been to church suppers, right? This was the ultimate church supper, prepared and served by a neighboring congregation. There was breast of chicken (barbecued on the spot), fruits and vegetables with dips, cheese and crackers, and salad after salad, including several featuring sour cream and Jell-O in many rainbow colors.

We sat on the patio to eat — my brother from Portland, his wife and daughter and grandchildren, nephews from Pasadena, Seattle and Vancouver, the Bay Area delegation aka Debbie and Bruce, Guy, Peter and Sheeka, me.

Charlotte never had time to leave the church proper; she was surrounded by people offering solace and hugs.

I sat with her briefly, expressing astonishment at the huge turnout of friends.

“Everybody loved Frankie,” she said. “Everybody loved Frankie.”

Family members traded news — we see the far-away ones all too rarely. My brother’s sons Billy and Jimmy are both newly married; the nephew from Pasadena is nearing divorce. All are wonderfully handsome, decent young men.

My brother and I hugged a lot.

My little group had been there more than three hours when we tore ourselves away.

We hated saying goodbye — to Frank, to each other.

Driving home, we traded impressions of an emotional day.

When Frank died, we hadn’t known what to do.

We gave the only thing we had to give: our love, our presence.

All my life, the greatest comfort in tragedy has been the strength of family.

When all the dear faces rallied around Charlotte in Roseville, I felt a lot less sad, but happy that we were all there.