There’s a cartoon hanging in our office kitchen that depicts the late great Deborah Howell, affectionately known as RNS’ Godmother, hovering above the Capitol in angelic splendor as her alter ego, pitchfork in hand, unleashes a spree of vulgarities that would make a sailor blush. Deborah embraced her bifurcated image — Mother Mary Deborah on the one hand, the Dragon Lady on the other — and so did we.

Deborah died on Friday as she fulfilled a lifelong dream of visiting New Zealand with her beloved Peter. She stopped the car to take a photo and got out to cross the street. She never saw the oncoming car that took her life at age 68. It was a life cut short before its time.

The Internet is full of glowing tributes that accord her the accolades she so richly deserved — as a pioneering female executive in a man’s world, she possessed the grit of a Texas tornado who did not suffer fools gladly. She won Pulitzers and pushed her way to the top, all the while employing her signature foul-mouthed directness from which few were spared. As her successor as WaPo ombudsman Andy Alexander put it, “Some journalists swear like sailors; she swore like the fleet.” (She’d also find sheer delight that WaPo had to issue a correction on her own obit.)

But what many didn’t know about her was her passion for religion journalism — more specifically, religion journalism at RNS. Deborah was the driving force behind Advance Publications’ decision to acquire RNS from the Methodists in the mid-1990s. She protected us, advocated for us, cajoled us, yelled at us, pushed us, swore at us and loved us. She, more than any other person, is responsible for us weathering the media meltdown that has devastated daily journalism.

She wasn’t a particularly religious person, although she was a person of faith. Preachers might have blushed to have heard her talk, and she would have been the first to have admitted — even reveled in — her shortcomings. More than once, I was on the receiving end of a Deborah tirade; just a few months ago, she nearly came at me from across the desk when something I said set her off. Yet she was unfailingly kind and protective and sheltered me, and the entire staff, under her wing like the mother hen that she was. Countless times today I’ve caught myself asking, WWDD? What Would Deborah Do?

Deborah was convinced that a democracy couldn’t function without a free, independent and vibrant press. She also understood that you cannot understand America without understanding religion, and she spent the final months of her life fighting to find a way for religion journalism to thrive in the 21st century. Editors come and go, but there will never be another Deborah Howell.

Deborah was received into the Episcopal Church in the middle of her life, and given her fondness for words, I suspect she’d appreciate and recognize the poetry of the burial rite in the Book of Common Prayer. I suspect she’d also see herself, especially, in the following lines:

“Into thy hands, O merciful Savior, we commend thy servant Deborah. Acknowledge, we humbly beseech thee, a sheep of thine own fold, a lamb of thine own flock, a sinner of thine own redeeming. Receive her into the arms of thy mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light.”

I’ll say Amen to that.