When we walked in, I thought we had the wrong room. Neither one of these two ladies were my aunt. On closer examination, I could see that this woman looked a bit like my aunt, maybe she could be my aunt's mother, but surely not my aunt. A shell, a weak and deteriorated body housing just the spirit of what once was. Thin, so thin. Straight, white hair where my aunt always had permed, brownish-gray hair. Erratic breathing, the only sign of life as she slept. There is something about this eminent death, something about sitting with her, reading a very relevant Bible, that heightens my awareness of life, the precarious and fragile spirit living in us. Alarms go off, the woman in the next bed bangs a spoon over and over, people go in and out, back and forth past the open door. There is no privacy here, and it feels like there is no dignity. But there is hope in the resurrection here. There is a truth to the Bible's psalms, cries for help, promises of forgiveness, proclamation of our weakness and God's strength.
My aunt was basically deaf for the past few years. I remember visiting her with my mother and my grandpa, who also struggles with hearing. My mom would stand in the middle of the two and "translate" by yelling what one said to the other, as neither my aunt or grandpa could speak loudly anymore either.
But now I sit reading the Bible to my sleeping, perhaps comatose aunt, and I am not yellling. I know that she cannot physically hear me. I know that this isn't for the benefit of her body that I read, but for the very much alive spirit living in her. And so I read and I read, flipping through the epistles and Revelation and then the Psalms. Wow, I never realized how many of the things I have underlined in the Bible apply to this precariousness-of-life situation. (On second thought, of course it all applies to the precariousness of life, and that is in fact the purpose of the Bible, but I often read it with a hardened heart, feeling immortal and disconnected. I needed this little wake-up call.) My spirit reads to hers. My spirit connects in a way that we no longer can connect physically. Her spirit comforts mine. Instead of feeling useless because I know she can't hear me, this feels like one of the best times we have ever spent together as our spirits commune.
I sit here and think about my aunt, the ferocious personality she had. I was so afraid of her as a child, but felt such a bond with her as an adult. Day turns to night. She sleeps on. I kiss her hand. It's time to say goodbye, but I cannot bring myself to walk away. I sit and talk to her, giving her permission to go, which I suppose is really just my way of saying goodbye. She surely doesn't need my permission. I kiss her hand and say goodbye again, but still I linger. I thank her for who she was, who she is, for serving countless children through a lifetime of teaching. For loving her many nieces and nephews, great-nieces and great-nephews, and even the ever-growing number of great-great-nieces and great-great-nephews. I am like her in so many ways. Single, childless, yet loving children and wanting a lifetime to teach. Stubborn (but then again, that describes most of my family). Maybe a little fearsome at first, but really desiring to be a loving person once we come out of our initial shell.
Goodbye Aunt Hermine. I will miss you. But I'll see you again in Heaven.
(Aunt Hermine died on Tuesday night, three days after I visited. I am so glad I was able to go when I did.)
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