I wanted to say something almost as soon as I heard that legendary National Review editor Kate O’Beirne had passed, and I regret it’s taken a few days. When I heard the shocking news Sunday, I was already scrambling to get to another funeral out of state. It turns out that death is also what happens when you’re making other plans. And nobody, not even the unforgettable Kate Walsh O’Beirne, lives forever.
So here goes: This seems like a silly detail, but of all the things about Kate that stick out in my mind right now, it’s that she had white carpet. Obviously, the significance of this requires some unpacking.
In the summer of 2007, I was offered a job at National Review. I’d spent the last few years working at a financial wire service. It was a good job, I learned a lot, my employer was decent, and I hated every minute of it. I was interested in politics and culture, and the thought of another day spent writing about credit default swaps very nearly made me break out in hives. Going to work at National Review was an opportunity that I did not want to mess up.
That was easier said than done. This was also the most stressful time in my life. The offer came shortly before my first child was born, and I had been married less than a year earlier. Like a lot of newlyweds, we were broke and living in a one-bedroom apartment. There but for the grace of God went Mark and Mollie Hemingway.
But from the moment I started working with Kate in National Review‘s D.C. office, it was adoration at first site. She had just officially stepped down as the magazine’s Washington editor, but if you were in the office there was no doubt who was in charge. She ran the place with a velvet fist. It was impossible not to be struck by her. She was impossibly tall and swanlike. She had the grace, intelligence, and wardrobe of a Washington doyenne—Kate knew everyone—but the moment she opened her mouth, there was never any attempt to hide her Irish Catholic roots. She was all conviction and common sense; if she were a fictional character, she would have been equally at home in a Raymond Chandler or John le Carré novel.
Then, a few months after I went to work for National Review, Kate O’Beirne invited my wife and me out to her house for a party. This felt like quite an honor. When we showed up, my wife and I were mildly starstruck, as nearly everyone in attendance was someone we knew of and respected. We had gotten a babysitter and were also just tremendously relieved for a rare night out. Then someone handed my wife a glass of red wine. I don’t remember exactly what happened, except that someone bumped into Mollie and she dumped that glass of wine all over Kate’s white carpet. Needless to say, we were mortified.
Kate saw what happened. And when I say she saw what happened, I don’t mean she saw Mollie spill a glass of wine. Kate had maybe the highest social aptitude of anyone I’ve ever known. She took one look at us and immediately knew what was going on: We were a young couple, very much wanting to make a good impression, and already more than a little overwhelmed for reasons that had nothing to do with the wine on the carpet.
Kate swept in and seamlessly inserted herself into the situation. For all I know, she eventually had to rip out that section of carpet. But I do know that, at least for a short while, the most important thing in Kate’s life was putting us at ease. We ended up having a wonderful evening.
In Kate’s mind, there was probably nothing especially remarkable about what she did for us that evening, even though it went well beyondmerely being a good hostess. She extended her grace—in both senses of the word—to everyone around her as naturally as breathing.
Her lovely circle of influence seemed to encompass all of Washington. I remember one time I was discussing some problems I was having with a story I was working on with her and she said, “You should talk to George.” I was confused right up until she handed me a cell phone with none other than George Will on the other end. Aside from being honored to talk to a guy I’d grown up reading, as I recall, he did, in fact, have the answer I was looking for.
And it wasn’t just that she knew everyone in Washington; she knew exactly what was going on in their lives. She was no mere gossip, though. She knew so much because she was so loved and respected, people volunteered everything. The list of people who called her on the regular for advice might as well have been the phonebook. Everyone wanted to talk to Kate because, aside from being socially adroit and whip smart, she was worldly in the best sense. Whatever astonishing detail she shared with you was undercut by her firm belief that misfortune, let alone bad judgment, could befall anyone of us.
At the same time, Kate was fiercely protective of the people and beliefs she held dear. Should you cross Kate and not avail yourself of the opportunity she surely extended to make it right, well, she wasn’t bent on revenge, but she was one crafty woman. One way or another, you were going to be shown the error of your ways.
Of course, Kate was not just worldy but also very otherworldly. She was a deeply committed Catholic and her profession of faith was active and inescapable. As a Lutheran, I was deemed just acceptable enough to be party to several conversations in the office where Kate was scheming to find ways to make some godless friend or acquaintance of hers come to know the love of Christ. I already knew Kate had been famously instrumental in the conversion of columnist Bob Novak. She’d actually managed to get the one guy in D.C. whose nickname was “the Prince of Darkness” baptized.
I already miss Kate dearly, but can at least take some comfort in the fact she was a believer. And I pray the grace of her beloved Lord renders her soul as white as that carpet.
