Back into the future....

I had the sad occasion of attending my aunt's funeral this past week. It was a grueling two days, but I knew I would always regret it if I didn't go. So I hopped into the car, and eight hours later, I was back to my past.

It is always fascinating to glimpse backwards into my childhood. Even as we celebrated the wonderful, rich life of a dearly loved woman who always had a smile on her face and a song in her heart, I felt myself slipping easily into the role of my childhood - youngest in my generation, never taken too seriously, sort of a frivolous luxury to the extended family, and yet, somehow valued none-the-less.

When the pastor asked if anyone would like to stand up and say something special about my aunt, I thought of so many things I could have said, but once again, felt my own insignificance, and said nothing. I told myself that it would be impossible to sum her up in just a few, brief words. It wouldn't do her justice, because she was so much more than mere words can tell.

But I knew my position in the family held me back as much as the lack of words ever could have, and I'm not complaining. I think that there is an unrecognized value to family occasions, even sad ones such as this. It reminds me where I came from, and tells me a little bit more about myself each time I see those people who led the way for me to be who I am today.

One of my cousins recently laughingly told me that I am still a brat, and I had to giggle at the characterization of myself. It is always surprising to me to remember that is how they saw me way back when, because to me, I was just being me. I am, according to most people, sharply witty, but sometimes the edge is a little too cutting, and it was that characteristic to which my cousin was referring that day. I didn't realize that quality came out of my childhood, but clearly it did, as I have several cousins that seem to have that same trait in evidence.

When I spend time with those people I rarely see, but who are the people closest in relation to me in this life, I see where I came from, and it is evident where my quirky personality derives it's basis. My cousins tease and poke fun and seem to see life in much the same way I do, and in that troubled time, it was comforting to be with people who know so much about you, there is no choice but to simply be yourself.

I think that legacy may be the most important one that our loving parents could have left to us, in fact. We are a family of goofy, irreverent humorists, I realized, and I, for one, am grateful to have a piece of that shared history.

But there are some other pieces of the legacy that have been left to us, as well, and my aunt has her own place in my heart. I am singularly blessed, because she left behind three daughters and a son who remind me, in so many ways, of the person that we have lost, but who lives on in them.

Scent is always a memory keeper for me, and certain smells will immediately call to mind a person or an occasion that I associate with that scent. The scent I associate with my mom is baking bread. [She can't abide store bought bread, which makes me a disappointment, I'm sure, since that's all I ever have, if I have any at all.] The scent of the baking bread is one that fills the entire house, and makes my mouth water just to think of it. I never get a whiff of that scent without seeing my mother right in front of me, pulling the fresh loaves out of the oven, and swatting my hand as I eagerly wait to cut into the freshly turned out manna she created.

Like most women of her generation, my aunt was always in the kitchen. In fact, I cannot recall ever seeing her in any other room of her house. I am sure I did, she couldn't have stayed in the kitchen every waking moment, but it certainly seemed like she did to me.

Since she was out there, anyway, she would make the most delicious treats you can imagine. In fact, her grandson was inspired to go to cooking school to become a chef because of her influence when he was a child. So part of her legacy lives on in him, too, as he delights his customers with his own specialties.

The treats for which my Aunt Alice was most famous were her fattigman and her donuts. Those donuts must have been a lot of work for her, but you never heard her complain as you stole them away from her, hot out of the oil, almost before she could set them down. She was always delighted that she had made someone she loved happy, and it was a mutual admiration society as you basked in the warm glow of her smile.

At the visitation the night before the funeral, [a visitation is sort of the Lutheran version of a wake without the fun,] my cousins had provided some food for everyone to snack on. [Lutherans cannot get through any occasion without food and coffee to sustain them. You will never starve to death around a Lutheran. Trust me on this one. I gain five pounds just thinking about going home.]

Never a big socializer, and entirely disconcerted by the number of people who seemed to know me, but whom I didn't recognize, I fairly quickly located the food room. I decided to hide out in there, while various members of the family came and went. I really enjoyed that smaller opportunity to talk to some of the younger set that I don't really know, except in name. It worked out really well for me, too, until my mother came and found me. Some things never change, even when you are 40 something....

One of my cousins mentioned that Alice's donuts, made by two of her daughters, were in an ice cream pail off to the side. When I rushed to snap that cover off and take one to savor, the amazing aroma came wafting up out of that pail and filled my nostrils, not with the scent of donuts, but with the scent of my Aunt Alice.

It was almost as if she was there in front of me, once again frying those delectable treats for me to gobble down as fast as I could. And it soon became apparent that it wasn't true just for me. When I commented on how they smelled like my aunt to me, everyone in the room agreed, and said that was true for them, too. I know as long as I live, if ever I encounter that scent again, I will be immediately transported back to a little kitchen where my aunt would be creating sweet delicacies for us to devour.

My aunt loved to sing, and she loved it when others sang as well. One of my only talents, which I mostly squandered growing up, was an ability to carry a tune. So sing I did, almost every Sunday of my adolescence. Many of the older people in that little stone church, now mostly gone, were very appreciative of my efforts, [or truthfully, lack thereof,] but my aunt Alice was always so proud of me, it made it worth the little effort I had expended. She would hug me each Sunday, and tell me how much she enjoyed hearing me sing. Not only did I make my aunt happy, but getting that hug had the added benefit of sort of having a little piece of my dad again, too.

My aunt was one of the hardest workers I've ever known. She worked day and night to be sure that her family never did without anything essential. But you never saw her without a smile on her face. She made do with whatever she was given, and didn't waste time regretting what she didn't have.

The last time I saw Alice, I once again saw a glimpse of that lovely, warm smile that lit up whatever room she was in. She was a patient in the local nursing home, her mind ravaged by the Alzheimer's that stole her away piece by piece over the last few years, and she didn't recognize me at all. But she looked at my mother, the sister-in-law from her younger years, and she complimented my mother on her lovely outfit she was wearing that day. The essential good that lived within her was not stolen by the disease that stole her from us, it seems, because she remained gracious, even in her personal fog. And then she smiled at us, and my heart melted once again as I was reminded of her loving presence, gone now, but never forgotten.

As I thought about my loving aunt these past few weeks, I have taken great comfort from Isaiah 40:31: "But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint." I know my aunt embodied those words, and I am comforted now to think of her soaring and running, and able, once again, to be the spirit that God intended her to be.

I have recently been struggling with my own advancing age. I can't quite believe I am pushing 50, since I still feel 25, and it doesn't seem possible that the adults of my childhood are now in their 80's and 90's. I had an age related moment of laughter in the midst of the sadness last week, however. My cousin, over 60, and with children not much younger than me, said with a bemused look on her face that she supposed since both of her parents are gone, and with her older brother gone as well, that makes her the oldest one in her family-by-birth, so she must be a grown up now!

I can only hope that as my generation picks up that torch and leads the way for the generations that follow us, we can do it with as much grace and goodness as the one that led us into the future.