The recent death of Joan Ramsey [TLC, March 5], widow of the 100th Archbishop of Canterbury Michael Ramsey, brought sadness and a flood of memories of an association spanning over three decades. Lady Ramsey died at 84 on Feb. 13 at St. John's Home, attached to the convent of the All Saints Sisters at Oxford. She had lived there with Lord Ramsey from l987 until his death in April l988, and had stayed on thereafter in the care of the nuns.

The Church of England, and indeed the entire Anglican Communion, owe her an immense debt, for without her Michael Ramsey, despite his vast intellect, scholarship and sanctity, never would have made it from Bishop of Durham to Archbishop of York and, ultimately, to the primacy, or to be the great spiritual leader and world ecumenical figure that he was, but he would have been remembered mainly as a distinguished but exceedingly eccentric theologian and academic.

It was Joan who wrought the change, bridging the gap of his social inadequacies - his lack of small talk and frequent long silences - by her outgoing friendliness and genuine interest in people. In the floodtide of women's liberation, she made no speeches and gave no interviews, but remained the devout and dutiful wife and helpmate, the gracious hostess, and the archbishop's constant companion.

She was born Joan Hamilton in Lincolnshire in 1910, and as the daughter of a British Army officer, spent some years in Ireland. In l939, she settled in Durham, later becoming secretary to the Bishop of Jarrow at his house on the close. A near neighbor was Michael Ramsey, then professor of divinity at Durham University and a canon of the cathedral. In 1942, they were married, to everyone's astonishment, for he was thought to be a committed celibate. It was the beginning of a love story that continued until his death and beyond.

My association began in 1962, with their first and only visit to Washington. It was renewed the next year on my first trip to England, when I stayed several days at Lambeth Palace and interviewed the archbishop. But it was at the Lambeth Conference of 1968 that the friendship deepened, in Joan's great kindness to the press, which I especially appreciated as a fledgling reporter on my first major foreign assignment.

From then on I saw them frequently in my coverage of church events: over tea at Lambeth Palace, in great services at Canterbury, and over sherry at the Old Palace there, where she once showed me the parts dating from Archbishop Becket's day, and the passage through which he went to his martyrdom. After he retired, I visited them at The Old Vicarage in Cuddesdon, where they lived for a while, and in the U.S. at Nashotah House where he was a visiting professor.

We met again during Lambeth '78, at the royal garden party, where they were holding court, and in 1982 at the pope's visit to Canterbury. I saw them together for the last time in 1984 at their house in Durham. Joan had had eye surgery that was not too successful, and I thought how frail they both seemed.

Joan Ramsey had no claim to physical beauty, but there was a sparkle and radiance that illumined and transfigured her. In addition to her wit, and her own special brand of humor, she had a remarkable talent for mimicry, though never unkindly, and mostly targeted to the pompous and the proud. The Ramseys had nicknames for everybody; to them, Archbishop Donald Coggan was always "Donald-the-Cog."

For several years my traveling apparel was linked to a green coat, and it amused them to pretend that this was my perennial color and attire. Many years later, when I received an honorary degree from Nashotah in 1992, she wrote me that she was sure Michael "is rejoicing that the green coat now has a new hood!"

She went everywhere with him - to church, on his travels, and from often tiresome diocesan gatherings to great state events. At a Lord Mayor of London's dinner, reportedly a very dressy affair, it was noted that she was not wearing a tiara. "My reply," she told me, "was that I had once owned a tiara left me by an aunt, but had sold it in order to accompany my husband to South Africa, which I thought more important."

I saw her for the last time during the 1988 Lambeth Conference, when I visited her in the two little rooms they had shared in their convent home in Oxford. But we corresponded often until last year, when I received a note, typed for her, saying "I've got a bit beyond writing letters, but I still think of you with love." And that is the way I will always think of her.

A letter from former Archbishop Robert Runcie told me about her funeral, in the great choir at Canterbury Cathedral. "The service," he wrote, "was the same as for Michael - entirely Prayer Book [1662] with the sober dignity of those great affirmations. A full choir sang the sentences, psalm and anthem, John Andrew led the intercessions, and the Provost of Southwark [a family connection] gave the address, to a good gathering of old friends. I thought of you, and know you would have approved of this farewell to Joan."

When Michael Ramsey died, Joan wrote me that she was "not too sad, for his going was so peaceful, with the most beautiful expression on his face, as though he was looking into that glory that he so often preached and wrote about ... and I know that we shall be together again in heaven." In his letter, Bishop Runcie spoke of having seen her shortly before she died. "She was very peaceful," he wrote, "and longing to slip away to her beloved Michael."

Her passing marks the end of an era, in which I was blest to have had them as friends. "May their rest this day be in peace, and their dwelling-place the Paradise of God." o