I have been blessed in my life to be surrounded by loving aunts and uncles galore. Each of them was extra special to me, every one in their own unique way, and when I think of them, it is easy to remember the qualities that stand out for me in each one. Every single one of them set an example for me of how to live well, how to behave towards others, how to be the best me I can be. I can not fail if I simply follow the path set before me by these amazing people I am lucky enough to call my family.
Losing each one has been painful and difficult, but I always say this pain of loss is the price of loving someone deeply, and it is worth the cost, of course. But that pain, in the moment, is hard, and I wish we never had to experience it. But alas, no one lives forever, and this past week, I lost yet another person who helped form and shape my life in ways she probably didn't even know.
My Aunt Shirley was one of the most giving people I've ever known. Nothing was ever too much trouble for her, no request too outrageous that she couldn't make it happen. From days at her cabin to Special K bars like no one else's to quick overnight visits with my cousin, she took everything in her stride and made it seem easy. Friendly and outgoing, no one was ever a stranger to Shirley, and everyone she met felt her warmth and caring on a personal level.
Shirley had a gift for making everyone feel special, because she always paid attention to the small things that were important to you. I thought of myself as a favorite niece, and I believe I was right, but I imagine everyone thought the same, and I think they were all right, too. Shirley just loved us all, as we were, for ourselves, without qualification. And she demonstrated that love in how she interacted with each one of us, which is a true gift from her to us.
For myself, she worried about my getting sunburned long before sunblock and melanoma were even a thing people talked about, and she would always be chasing me down trying to get me in the shade. I was so bummed, when in fact I did get melanoma at a very young age, to have to tell her that she was right, not because she would say I told you so (which she certainly had every right to do, but of course, she didn't!) but because I knew she would take it to heart and feel bad for me. (I was right, and she really did. Then she doubled down on the sunblock every time I was at her cabin thereafter!) She worried about my allergies and she felt bad when I dealt with life's inevitable problems. Her worrying about me told me she valued me, and that I mattered. It was a true gift of the spirit, and I appreciated it more than she knew.
Shirley also celebrated the joyful moments of my life, sending cards for anniversaries and birthdays and whatever other special occasions occured over the years. She and my uncle Fritz were actually the first in the family to see my daughter when she was born, as they always stopped by on their way home from Arizona every year for a quick visit, and that year, it happened at that time. It was such a special thing for me, to have them there in that important time. I could always count on her to recognize those times that were important to me, and it never failed to make me smile and feel special, even when it wasn't anything big.
But as important as the big moments are, I think it is necessary to recognize that most of life's most precious moments turn to out to be throwaway moments, nothing that anyone else would think of as special, but which, in memory, are, in fact, the most special times you remember. There are a lot of those moments that come to mind throughout my life, and they sum up who Shirley was to me as well as anything.
Among the most special memories are "a little lunch" at 3 p.m. at the picnic table by the lake, her love of the color orange, her distinctive laugh, how she hugged me every time she saw me just because she was glad to see me, and the world's best lemon bars. I think of her taking photos for years that had either hair or feet cut off, because she just couldn't quite get the hang of it, but at least she thought to do it, unlike me. I remember her standing on the dock encouraging me while my cousin and my uncle tried to teach me to water ski. (I finally managed to get up, go around once and then I was done, and she was so happy for me, waving at me from the dock so I would know where I needed to drop the line when we were done!) I remember the fun of an overnight with my cousin, and visiting for any special occasion. I don't hear the word cabin without thinking of her standing in her little cabin kitchen, organizing food and making sure everyone had everything they needed or wanted to make the day perfect.
There are so many memories, too many to recount, of moments spent in her presence. What a blessing she is to me and to so many and how very much she will be missed. But she will live on in each of us, in the memories we made, the times we shared, the meals we ate together, and all the special moments that make up a lifetime of love.
As I have grown in years and wisdom, I have come to recognize the extraordinary in the everyday. My Aunt Shirley was an extraordinary woman, and I will miss her from now until we meet again. But I rest in sure faith that she is back with my uncle in the arms of God, and it is exactly where she most wanted to be.
