Beth P. Bowen

Surrounded by her loving family, Beth P. Bowen, was called home to God on April 21, 2025. Beth was born in Eau Claire, Wisconsin on June 3, 1951 to Mark Lyle Prophet and Phyllis Lee Prophet. Her early childhood was spent in Wisconsin and Washington, D.C. She later moved to Arlington, Virginia with her mother, three sisters and brother. Beth remained in Arlington the rest of her life. In 1969, Beth graduated from Wakefield High School and she later attended George Mason University. For several years, she worked at the U.S. Department of State and other positions within the Federal government. Beth was a member of Arlington Forest United Methodist Church.

Beth lived a remarkably consequential life. She was a supportive daughter to her mother Phyllis, a faithful companion to her siblings, a loving wife of 46 years to her husband, Mike, a devoted mother to her children, Laine and Blake, an attentive grandmother to Nonie, Flynn and Cora, and a true friend to many.

From an early age, Beth demonstrated exceptional artistic talents. Throughout her life she was a gifted visual artist who loved sharing her works with family and friends. Beth was proficient in many art media, including: pastel, water color, charcoal, pencil, origami, collage and decoupage, calligraphy, and caricature, but one of her favorites was illustration. Beth disdained using text messages or emails to celebrate a personal achievement or holiday. Instead, she would communicate with a handwritten note tucked inside an illustrated mailed envelope, creating a treasured keepsake for the lucky recipient. She completed hundreds of illustrated letters for relatives and friends. When Beth grew up, money was scarce. She learned as a child how to make art on a shoestring budget: a tiger sculpted in the snow would have blades of grass as stripes, a found walnut shell would become a wooden doll, sticks off a dying tree would decorate an elaborate curios box, and chewing gum wrappers would be carefully folded and refolded to fashion an American flag. Visiting a thrift shop to find raw material for art projects with Beth elicited the childlike excitement and serenity of searching for shells at the beach; one never knew what the tide would bring in. She loved making things with her beautiful, skillful, and graceful hands - the only limits to her artistry were her imagination which had no limits. Beth loved art museums, and when she traveled in the U.S. and abroad, a visit to the local gallery was always on the itinerary She shared her passion for art with Mike, her children and her grandchildren, and each has become an accomplished artist in their own right (well, Cora, not yet, and Mike - not so much).

Throughout her life Beth, embraced a message of joy, hope and wonder. To say Beth was an avid reader fails to capture her passion for books. She was a voracious reader. She devoured books. In a recent conversation with Laine, she shared that E.B. White was her favorite author. She admired his unadorned language and lingering sentiment. Beth made history feel in the present. When she spoke of John James Audobon or Paul Bowles, it was as though she had just finished tea with them. Few things in life animated Beth more than discussing what she had read. She was sometimes a harsh critic. On more than one occasion having completed a book that disappointed her, she screamed out and furiously threw it down the stairs. The classics, biographies, histories, science fiction, comics, non-fiction - she loved them all. A very good day for Beth was visiting a library book sale and rummaging through the stacks. She loved finding books for her children, grandchildren and siblings. She took a special guilty pleasure in sneaking a look at the books other patrons were choosing. As a child, Beth read with her sisters; as an adult, she frequently read out of loud. On road trips to Wisconsin, Florida, and other assorted destinations, it was not unusual for her to read to us for hours at a time while driving in the car. We loved it, and she was happy in pleasing us. Of course, Beth was much more than this. She was a skilled gardener and seamstress. She made clothes, Halloween costumes and Laine’s wedding dress. She mastered needlepoint, embroidery, crochet, and patchwork. She relished a quiet evening to complete a puzzle, or a lively one to compete in a round of trivia. Beth enjoyed classical, rock, Broadway musicals, and country music. She loved all holidays -- especially Christmas. A small notebook in her purse contained a meticulous handwritten log of the thoughtful gifts she amassed steadily throughout the year, its modest size and orderly contents belying the abundance of beautiful boxes that were always difficult to contain beneath the Christmas tree. Each Christmas, she would also create a personalized ornament for Laine and Blake, commemorating a favorite memory or milestone from the previous year. Always creative and well-crafted, these thoughtful keepsakes embody the love and pride of an adoring mother, and will be treasured mementos for all the Christmases to come. One aspect of Beth’s personality that sparkled until her very last day was her wily sense of humor. She built a home where laughter, wit, and storytelling were encouraged, celebrated and perhaps best of all welcomed! In the case you ever thought a gal from the Midwest lacked edge, you would be mistaken. Beth was one of those rare individuals who could grasp every day domesticity and wind-whipping freedom in the palm of one hand. As if by magic, she built a nest for her family and friends that was as sheltering as it was wild

Beth is survived by her husband Mike, her daughter Laine Bowen (husband Matthew Watson) of Falls Church, VA, her son Blake Bowen (wife Lauren Reynolds Bowen), of Alexandria, VA, and her three grandchildren (Nonie Watson, Flynn Watson and Cora Bowen). She is also survived by her three sisters (Rebecca Lipinski, Marcia Prophet, Allyson Henrich), her brother (Daniel Prophet), four half siblings (Sean, Erin, Moira and Tatiana), as well as many nieces, nephews, and close friends.

Beth touched the lives of all who knew her. She was strong and good. She chose love and openness over ambition and pride. She believed hard work was its own reward, as she taught her children and their children to never give up on the things they cared about. Her intelligence, love of family, and humor were hallmarks of a life cherished by God. The family wishes to thank the doctors, nurses and staff of the Virginia Hospital Center and the Virginia Cancer Specialists for their caring support, kindness, and compassion for Beth during the last 13 years of her life.

A private memorial service for close family members and friends to celebrate Beth’s life will be held at Oakwood Cemetery in Falls Church, VA at a later date. Memorial donations may be made to the Breakthrough T1D (formerly the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation), the Dyslexia Foundation, or the Virginia Cancer Specialist Foundation in Beth’s name.

Godspeed Beth, we love you. Until we meet again.

IN REMEMBRANCE OF MOM ~ (Delivered by Laine C. Bowen, at Oakwood Cemetery, Falls Church, VA on August 15, 2025)

It’s that moment when you first bite into an apple, and your front teeth pierce that thin, little layer of crimson skin. Somehow, your tastebuds themselves are devoured by that overwhelmingly, crisp, icy-fruity, flavor that never ceases to be delicious. And, then one day, and you never know which day that will be, everything changes, forever.

Imagine, sadistic Svidragailov's shock at the exact moment he corners devout Dunya, and then in a single instant she draws forth a pistol and bang, just like that everything he thought he grasped goes whizzing past his temple. That's how it goes, one fine day, you'll pluck a ripened apple from its weighty bough and feel entitled to its crunch... and then without warning, your tooth will, first crack, then chip, and never again, will you chew, taste, or relish, sweetness, in that same care free-way which only moments ago you counted on.

It's often said that one never really knows what they've had until it's lost. But, plot twist that's not our story Mom. It's not our story because we knew exactly what we had the whole time, from start to finish, cover to cover.

"I got the best one", these were the words you whispered to me the very first day you held me in your arms, and these were the words I whispered back to you, on the very last day I held you in mine. For we are Mother, and Daughter, and like a pair of bookends, we embrace a shared collection of stories. And our collection of stories is so complete, and thematically perfect, in its unwavering expression of love that its message leaps off the dusty pages, and burrows as softly as a seed within the tissue of an eternally beating heart.

Do you believe that God loves us that he wants us to be happy, and that he calls each one of us to become fully human? I do, and honestly, I never felt more alive, loved and fully human than when I was with you Mom.

So, how then, do I think of you? Well, I think of you, in the way one thinks of light, water, air, and honey...and that last one's a joke shared by you, me and, Stanley Elkin. You are always shifting, always moving, sharply twinkling, and ever present. You illuminate the darkness, you replenish my soul, you shape, and reshape every passing memory, and mounting dream. Because you will remain a part of everything I have already done, and everything I am yet to do. For it has always been your celestial breath which fills the sails of my ship and carries me safely home.

Mom, do you remember the night, we sat side, by side on the sofa, sketching caricatures of Oscar night's Stars and Starlets? We observed them thoughtfully, as they bobbed up, and down, like bedazzled buoys, tossing and turning, in a ridiculously red sea. At one point, I looked over at you, and said, "I think the art of Caricature, and Eulogy are two sides of the same coin. What I mean is comedy is really just a funny way of being sad, and each discipline, must inherently capture the spirit of a person with just a few lines.” I'll never forget the way you paused, lifted your pencil from off the page, and flashed one of those gravely mischievous smiles that all those who are gathered here today love and miss so desperately. Perhaps, better still was your absolute mastery of superficial solemnity, which was so cleverly crafted in its delivery, and very nearly gossamer in its overarching texture and tone that no one, not even me, ever saw you coming Mom. I believe young people today define this prodigious confidence paired with such precision of language as "Riz". Furthermore, you had an almost flirtatious way of masking and unmasking Irony itself which was never to be underestimated, and always mere seconds from detonation. With, adorably deceptive, impulsivity, you replied, " check out my breakthrough, I've given Nicole Kidman X’s for eyes.” It was a flashing vision which revealed her to be nothing more than Bozo the Clown. I glanced down at your drawing; there could be no doubt about it, you were a marksman in the first degree.

So, the question now becomes, how do these mortal hands capture such an immortal beauty as yourself? I'll have you know, I'm feeling your radiant, smirk, from somewhere, out there, and it's warming every atom in my body.

Dear mom, you were and are the perfect storm. In a world of muses, you out-mused them all. Your glacial, green eyes were clearer and more captivating than even Madame Gautreau's lavender complexion. Goddess Diana's swift arrow as it pierced the heart of the leaping fawn had nothing on your opalescent bowling ball, named Odysseus as it flung forward and picked up a spare.

Moreover, when you picked Blake, and me up from school, in your daffodil, yellow, jumpsuit, paired with those matching sunshine-colored espadrilles, walking a wolf-hybrid, named Angel on a sparkling, silver chain, your prismatic hair, flowed from the crown of your head, and poured out over your shoulders like Montreal's finest maple syrup. Alas, your style was more polished than Robert E. Lee's Uniform the day he surrendered at Appomattox Courthouse. And ultimately it didn't matter which side of the war a person was on because when you rode into town, everybody, and I mean everybody, wished you were theirs.

I reckon you could have skated through life on your aura alone, but the funny thing was, you were a quiet American who preferred to read, and read, and read, and make things with your wonderfully, curious hands. To see those hands in repose, those hands that could make and fix anything, and made about as much sense as a taxidermy bird. I know this because they were the last part of your earthly body that I kissed. In this life, your fingertips were never trenchant or controlling, rather, like you, they were determined, lively and inexhaustibly creative. As a mother, you were the most devoted, proudest, funniest, freest, most loyal friend on God's green earth. It dawns on me today, that if you were a Build a Bear, you would be Tony Soprano. And may we never overlook the lessons you taught your beloved children, which were inarguably light years ahead of their time. When others questioned your morality, you just shrugged, and smiled as Blake darted past in a Rapunzel wig, or your uncoordinated Tomboy-of -a-daughter, toppled out of a Cherry Tree because she was carrying too many nymph-cicadas. Now picture this, at the same time other parents were dragging their kids to Disney's “Aladdin”, you showed me a whole new world by taking me to “The Crying Game”. So, what's this about Mom? "It's a love story,” you answered...the lights dimmed...pass the popcorn.

For you see, you didn't just stick a colorful sign in the front yard, pat yourself on the back, and walk away. Instead, day after day, week after week, month after month, and year after year, you modeled, through actions and art what empathy and kindness looked like in the wild. Moreover, you put the "Gal" in egalitarian! Bethy-boy, you were one of those rare individuals who possessed a first-class intelligence, matched with a steerage wit. And when the boat started sinking, even when you knew beyond all doubt that the voyage was doomed, you kept on cracking jokes and went on playing your violin.

But, before it was all over, you told me the secret to it all..."True Art reaches its target fastest when the artist relays highbrow ideas, in a low brow way, and vise-versa”. And, just like that Einstein's unkempt hair flattened his Theory of Relativity, irrevocably eclipsed by your beautiful mind. From that day forward I witnessed your little theory everywhere: I saw it in Moby Dick's white whale made from felt at the Richmond Fine Arts Museum; I heard it in Flannery O'Connor's sloppy, Southern accent spouting poetry like a crystal fountain; I felt it as the long shadow of a 12-foot high, magenta balloon dog crept across the pavement; and, I wore it in my 12-dollar wedding dress, comprised from three different, discarded, thrift shop gowns. You lovingly dissected each one, and with your scissors, needle and thread they were magically reborn. Shall we always find strength in your strength that was more striking and resilient than the Beartooth Mountains at sunrise.

Your optimism was a wrecking ball, I witness it in Nonie, you little Panglossian, Peter Pan's racing legs. I'm engulfed by it every time Flynn flashes one of his 90 mile an hour curveball smiles. I'm tickled by it each time I hear sweet Cora's laughter. I know it in the perfect childhood you and dad gave your children that now even in midlife, like a star's light, continues to shelter and protect us from despair. I'm welcomed by it in the home you made. I even see it in the beautiful sorrow behind my brother and father’s eyes, for without death, there can be no everlasting life. And in the wee hours of the day when I am closest to you, awakened by a timeless slumber I am encircled by it, drawn into the blue ring ‘round the Mourning Doves black eye. She sang to us and built her nest somewhere between midnight and Noon when our lady's swept you away to heaven.

As for your medical records, well, they were a leaning tower of phonebooks. But their hefty weight never intimidated you, because you understood like David with a stone clutched in his hand that courage is the only solution to fear. So, you laced up your gillies, and danced and danced, and danced, and danced, and danced, and danced, and danced, with the devil on your back, atop that mile high stack of phonebooks. No one but you could make 13 years a lucky number, and if Michael Flatley danced 35 taps in a second, well then you quadrupled his record.

But, best and most cherished of all is your love, your enduring, eternal, steadfast, fully human love that never failed be there when we needed it just a little bit or a lot. You're a miracle, you’re a beautiful, shimmering, like the sun, miracle, and down here we will grip hope and despair in the same hand, never forgetting the words you promised your children every new school year, "There will be a day, when it's summer again," just as there will be a day, that with God's Grace we will dwell with you in the garden once again and this time it will be forever.

Addressing the funeral statuary--

On this day we honor your life with a bouquet from Paradise’s Garden where each season blooms as one and every blossom sings a song of perpetual flower. The Wood Violet sings of Wisconsin, the Dogwood sings of Virginia, the Black Calla Lilly sings of death, the yellow Daffodils of new life, Pink Camellias sing of longing and Forget Me Nots of memory, the red Poinsettia sings of Christ, the White Lilly sings of Mary, Sunflowers sing of strength, and Babies Breath of eternal life, a pink Carnation sings of motherhood, the yellow Rose doth sing of friendship. Four Leaf Clovers crown the clusters, as far as immortal eyes can see. How lucky we were to have loved thee. Like a prayer adrift in a fresh gale may the song of flowers greet you in an imperishable Spring carried toward the Gates of Heaven on the Mourning Doves ashen wings.

We adorn this farewell of heaping buds accompanied by two white Lillies. Oh stem of pencil and flower of paper, we pray that the two sweet Sisters send us a message now and then…