If you ever met Jean Deaton, you probably have a story. If you knew her well, you likely have several—and at least one of them starts with, "Lord, you won't believe what Jean did."

Leora Jean Deaton, known simply as Jean, went home to be with the Lord on Sunday, July 26th after a battle with cancer. She was 91 years old, and if Heaven wasn't ready for her, it's too late now. In true Jean fashion, she had been declaring for more than 20 years that she had cancer—long before any doctor officially confirmed it. She would probably be pleased to know that, after all those years of insisting she had cancer, it was finally what took her home.

Born on February 27, 1935, Jean started making her own rules early. At 15, she married her first husband, H.B. Hewgley, because waiting wasn't her style. Years later, she married her second husband, Don Deaton, not once, but twice, proving that true love—and hardheadedness—can both deserve a second chance.

She was preceded in death by her beloved sons, Hank and Mark Hewgley, a loss no mother should ever endure.

She leaves behind her daughter, Kathy Bryant; granddaughter, Dana Hentschel; and younger sister, Pat Curtis, who somehow survived sharing a childhood with Jean.

Jean was famous for many things and not all of them would make the church bulletin.

As a girl, Jean killed a duck whose greatest mistake was following her a little too closely. Around the same time, she decided Pat's beautiful blonde curls had gone on long enough and cut every one of them off. Pat eventually forgave her. The duck never got the chance.

At 56, when many people were slowing down, Jean earned her nursing degree and spent years caring for newborns in the nursery at Sumner Regional Hospital. She had a gentle touch with babies, even if adults sometimes experienced her sharper side.

Jean loved the Lord with all her heart. She was a faithful Christian, devoted church member, and blessed with a beautiful singing voice.

Every Christmas, family and friends looked forward to her legendary rum cakes—rich, unforgettable, and, like Jean, a little stronger than expected.

Then there was Henry, her beloved Maine Coon cat. Henry had all the warmth of a barbed-wire fence. Naturally, Jean thought he was perfect.

In one final act, Jean left most of her estate to her church and charities. We choose to believe she figured we'd all be just fine—or maybe she was trying to make absolutely certain Saint Peter couldn't find a reason to turn her away.

The truth is Jean was impossible to fit into a neat little box. She was generous, opinionated, funny, faithful, fiercely independent, and just ornery enough to keep life interesting. She leaves behind countless stories and memories that will keep her family laughing for years to come.

We imagine she's already settled into Heaven—reorganizing the choir, baking a rum cake for the next fellowship supper, and reminding the ducks to keep their distance.

There will never be another Jean Deaton, and thank the good Lord for that—because one was all this world could handle.

There will be a small, graveside service for immediate family.