A widow's resolve

They had their day all planned. State Trooper Paul Barry would get home from the overnight shift in time to have breakfast with his seven -- yes, seven -- children. He would mow the lawn. He and his wife, Maryellen, would head to BJ's to grab some food for a pair of pool parties they were hosting over the weekend at their Franklin house.

But then the call came a little before dawn. There had been a crash on the way home from work. Paul Barry was in the hospital. Maryellen should get there immediately.

That was on June 15, and in the week or so after, it sometimes seemed that an entire state grieved for the wildly popular young trooper who died well before his time and the close-knit family he left behind.

How would a single mother cope with all those children, ages 1 to 12, including triplets? How would they make ends meet? How would they keep from falling apart?

Maryellen Barry sat the other day and answered these questions and more, telling a story of devastation that is gradually transforming into one of hope.

As she approaches this first Christmas without her husband, she reflected not only on what she lost that awful day, but what she has found since: personal courage, familial strength, and the help of thousands of people, many of them complete strangers, who have come to her aid.

There was the woman she had never met who showed up at her door this week with flowers. There was the builder who worked day and night putting a previously planned two-bedroom addition on her house in two weeks.

"It was like Extreme Home Makeover," Barry said. "He told me he didn't want to put me in any more stress."

There were the people, countless people, who sent thousands of dollars to a memorial fund. Others grabbed troopers and asked them to deliver cash.

There are the parishioners at St. Mary's in Franklin who sent dinner over seven nights a week until Maryellen finally pleaded with them in September to stop. They still do it twice a week.

Friends at her old parish of St. Mark's in Dorchester have rallied around the family, as have neighbors and parents at her children's school.

And then there's the State Police. Troopers check in at the house regularly, sometimes just to let the kids see a familiar cruiser in the driveway. Colonel Mark Delaney keeps in constant touch. Just this week, Trooper Sean O'Brien came by because he figured Barry needed help assembling Christmas toys.

"He said he was just in the neighborhood," Barry said, smiling. "Yeah, sure you were. You know what all of them tell me? 'This is what we do for family.' "

People want to help, and Barry has learned, sometimes slowly, to accept it. The lesson she teaches at home is that life goes on. It has to.

Bedtime is 8 o'clock. Honesty is the best policy. When the children fall into their inevitable funks, she might let them take a day off, but she tells them, "You know what you have to do."

"I tell them that you had the best life ever with your father," she said. "You're still going to have a great life, and it will get better as you grow up."

Eventually, Barry, 44, plans to start a foundation with some of the money that was contributed in Paul's name.

Already, she's donating to charity. She's written more than 16,000 thank - you cards.

She spread her hand across a photograph of her children and said, "There's not going to be one day that I don't have fun with this crew."

Later, she said: "I don't want to come across as Pollyannaish. We have miles and years to go. But we'll come out on the other side. And I always feel like people have my back."

Finally she said: "I thought we'd walk the walk until we were 90. Now I'll do it for him. I won't fail with his family."

That will be Christmas morning at one extraordinary household in Franklin, sadness mixed with excitement, appreciation mixed with resolve.

Brian McGrory is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at mcgrory@globe.com.