Wednesday morning was clear and somewhat cooler than the preceding days of August. I fixed a big breakfast to sustain our two sons who were leaving for Island Park to spend their last few vacation days with friends. I was careful not to wake Leon until breakfast was on the table. He stayed home from the shop to attend his aunt’s funeral, and after months of sleep depravation, sleeping in was a welcome benefit. By the time we left home, we were cutting it close.
We found a parking space by the sidewalk and hurried around to the front door of the mortuary, hoping to make it to the viewing before the doors closed for the family prayer. Aunt Lillian, Leon’s mother’s sister, had passed away on Monday at age 92. That leaves only Aunt LaFaun, who must be nearing 90, the one remaining sibling in a family of 6 girls and 2 boys. These are good women. We have had more contact with Aunt Lillian than any of the other aunts on his mother’s side, and we had mentioned several times in the last two or three weeks that we should visit her. Then last week we had word that she was at Draper Rehab on 1300 East and about 10600 South. She was comatose for about 2 weeks before she died.
Leon’s niece, Jennifer Park is also on 1300 East at Health South, going through rehabilitation therapy after a brain aneurysm caused bleeding in the left side of her brain. We had all been together for the 4th of July. We had visited with her and taken pictures of her and our daughter April, who is about nine months younger. Jennifer was very pregnant. She gave birth the next day to a healthy baby girl. Four days later, on July 9th, she collapsed while nursing her baby and the world as she had known it for the past 32 years was forever changed.
We left a church social a little after eight last Saturday night. We drove past our subdivision, up 7800 South toward 1300 East. “Are we going to visit Jennifer or Aunt Lillian?” I asked. “I’m not sure. I’m just heading in the right direction for both,” he said. “If we visit Jennifer, let’s just stay for 10 minutes and then we can see them both,” I suggested. There was a new deck of cards on the seat between us, still wrapped in cellophane. Last time we visited Jennifer, Leon asked if she would like to play a game of cards and she seemed interested. Because of an infection in her tracheotomy we had to wear masks, gowns and gloves on that visit, so he bought a new deck of cards to minimize the risk of introducing any new germs. “It’s too late to start a game of cards,” I said, as he turned into the parking lot of Health South. “Besides, we aren’t going to stay long enough.” We left the cards on the seat.
Jennifer brightened when she saw us. We understood why when we realized she was using her voice for the first time since her trauma. The trach was healed and no gowns were required. It was hard to understand what she was saying, but we caught a few phrases. She responded to us with gestures, expressions, and occasionally with words. Before we knew it an hour had passed. Too late to visit Aunt Lillian.
As we walked through the mortuary doors this Wednesday morning, we were relieved to see the family still gathered in the room across the foyer where Aunt Lillian was most certainly watching over her remains. It was a rather noisy gathering. Mostly Aunt Lillian’s posterity. As her son Jay said later during the service, this was a celebration of her life, not a sad occasion. She had lived a full life, had been faithful to her covenants, and left a family that was following her example and raising their children to do the same.
Her only daughter, Eva Jean, sang Aunt Lillian’s favorite song, “I Walked Today Where Jesus Walked.” As she sang those words, I noticed again the handicapped girl that I had noticed her earlier at the viewing. She was probably around 12 to 14 years old. She was now sitting across the aisle and in front of us in the mortuary chapel.. She obviously felt close to Aunt Lillian, who would have been her great-grandmother, and she would be one of 36 great-grandchildren. She was deaf and spastic. She was animated in her responses and her comments, which were not understandable to those who were not acquainted with her. I saw a family resemblance in her father, though I had never met him. I saw something else in him as well. While the lyrics to Aunt Lillian’s favorite song were being sung, he traded places with her mother on the bench, to take his turn signing and controlling this precious daughter’s behavior as best he could. He put his arm around her and held her for as long as she allowed. He looked into her eyes and signed answers to her questions. He firmly signed his displeasure with her outbursts, but never left her side; nor did he take her out. I thought to myself, here is someone who “walks today where Jesus walks”.
In truth, Aunt Lillian didn’t need a visit Saturday night, I decide, nearly as much as Jennifer did. Maybe she could even see the end of her journey, and the beginning of what lay beyond. Jennifer wakes each morning not knowing the length or even the destination of her journey here; only the need to take the next step. How very alone she must feel when the lights are turned down at night. To walk with Jennifer, or with the great-granddaughter of Aunt Lillian, or with anyone who needs us, I decide, is to walk where He walks. I send my love silently through the space between us to great-granddaughter and her parents. “I walked today where Jesus walked, and felt His presence near.” Eva Jean sings the last line of the song and I silently say an amen.
