They are not dead,
Who leave us this great heritage of remembering joy.
They still live in our hearts,
In the happiness we knew, in the dreams we shared.
They still breathe,
In the lingering fragrance,windblown, from their favourite flowers.
They still smile in the moonlight’s silver,
And laugh in the sunlight’s sparking gold.
They still speak in the echoes of the words we’ve heard them say again and again.
They still move,
In the rhythm of waving grasses, in the dance of the tossing branches.
They are not dead;
Their memory is warm in our hearts, comfort in our sorrow.
They are not apart from us, but part of us,
For love is eternal,
And those we love shall be with us throughout all eternity.
~Author Anonymous
Most people who read my blog already know that my Aunt Emmalou passed away recently. In fact, I would hazard to guess that most of the people who read this were actually at the funeral.
For those who weren't there and didn't know, I'll give a brief explanation. (Yes, I know... I just said that I would say something... brief.)
Emmalou was a constant presence in my older childhood/young adult years. She lived with my Grandmother, Aunt Sue and her family, and our family at the family homestead. (Yes, I am aware that I typed "family" three times in a short space of words. Consider it emphasis.)
When she was born with Down's Syndrome, my grandparents (being the kind of grandparents who valued family above all else... and they certainly must have to have had ten children!) rebelled against the practice of giving a child born with such obvious mental handicaps over to the state and instead took her home to raise her with the love that she deserved as a part of this family that they cherished. She was not a flawed gem to be hidden away in shame, but a precious and unique gift to shine among the other jewels.
She was raised with love and compassion and laughter and kindness.
The recent years saw her suffer the ravages of dementia and after a fairly brief (unlike my writing) struggle with illness, she passed away at the age of 57.
I was lucky enough to get home for the funeral. My husband, Jeff, tried to get me to go home when she first fell ill but I resisted. There's a difference between being 3546 miles away and feeling helpless and being up close and personal and still feeling helpless.
But... enough about that.
Midway through my 7+ hour flight home, the entertainment system on the plane failed horribly and I was left with no other option for staying awake than to pull out my laptop and write.
So, this is what I wrote. You'll notice it is written in the style of a public speech. I did not presume that I would actually speak it... it's just the way it wrote itself.
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You'll forgive me if I break the basic rules of public speaking and don't make eye contact with you as much as I should, if I manage to look at you at all for the rest of this. I learned the hard way at Grandmom's funeral that looking at my family at times like this does funny things to my ability to breathe, speak, or sing.
The Golden Books have a children's book called The Poky Little Puppy which I read on occasion to the various children in the household at some time or another.The misadventures of a puppy who always lagged behind the others.
The actual story isn't all that important, but the title character is.
It happened quite by accident. One day while trying to motivate Emmalou into moving at a somewhat reasonable pace for some event, perhaps dinner, I coaxed her along by teasing, “Come on, Pokey Puppy.”
Emmalou took great offense at being called a Poky Puppy....and so, the game was afoot.
I suppose I should mention that I was in my teens when this occurred. At this miserable time of life, I.... like most teens.... took some pride and satisfaction in riling people up. Even if it wasn't in my best interest. Like the time I was tired of being scolded by Aunt Sue for what felt like the millionth time and I tossed a glass of water on her and told her to cool off.
Thank goodness she didn't look for me under Mom's bed. I'm still not sure how I squeezed myself under there.... or how I got out.
But, I digress, as I am prone to doing.
It became a regular event. I would call Emmalou a Poky Puppy and she would complain and moan until I was either told to “knock it off” by an adult or Emmalou would finally speak the phrase.... "Chipper... Leave me me lone."
And then one day....ah, boundaries, how I loved to test them.... I took it a step further and called her Poky Puppy one time too many.
Emmalou looked as if she were truly going to kill me. Her mouth worked furiously as her hands clenched and unclenched. Her eyes rolled as she seemed to be searching for something.... anything.... to say to me that would teach me a lesson I wouldn't forget.
With growing horror, I realized what was happening and tried to stop the volcanic explosion that seemed just moments away.
“Shhhh,” I hissed. “I'm sorry! I 'm sorry!' I was desperate. What if she said something horrible!? What if she SWORE at me!? What if my mom or Aunt Sue or Grandmom heard her and made me suffer their justified, collective wrath?!
Was there anything worse than vacuuming the stairs or cleaning the bathroom AND having my work inspected by Mom? I didn't want to find out.
I braced myself, convinced that I would spend my next few weeks.... maybe even months condemned to learning the proper way to peel a potato.... with a paring knife. She sputtered and stammered and finally, out it came.
"Chipper!" She spoke with the fury of an angel of vengeance."You are snake stew!"
Snake stew.
Then.... thinking that she had indeed said the worst thing she could think of, her hand flew up to cover her mouth in horror.
And I laughed.
In my relief and in the comedy of the moment, I laughed.
And then she laughed. We both laughed.
Not just a giggle. Real, teary eyed laughter that left us gasping long enough for one of us to say “snake stew” and begin convulsing all over again.
You would think that it would have stopped there, but it didn't.We began to heckle each other. "Poky Puppy." "Snake Stew." "Poky Puppy." "Snake stew."Ad nauseum.Often to the point where someone would have to tell us, “Will you TWO knock it off!” at which point we'd cease while cacklingto ourselves.
Unexpectedly though, suddenly, the shoe was now on the other foot.
I became the heckled. I could be sitting at the kitchen table struggling over some homework assignment when “snake stew” would be whispered into my ear, blowing my concentration and making me lose the glimmer of hope I had of successfully factoring.
She would mutter it at me as she did her “work” at the table. Filling page upon page of notebook after notebook with her signature. Each line identical to the others. Each loop, curve, and curl in her name painstakingly practised. Each perfectly formed letter a testament to the love and support that she got at home, from her family, which enabled her to sign her name.<
The pride she had in her accomplishments was boundless and each one, no matter how small, was celebrated. A bowling score of 56. A paycheck of one dollar thirty seven cents. Some days it was as uncomplicated as combing her hair or tying her shoes. She would coo and chuckle her pleasure in things that most of us would take for granted.
Her joys were simple. A new pair of boots. A cassette tape. A coloring book. Sharpening a pencil. And sharpening a pencil. And sharpening a pencil. Crayons. Serenading the neighborhood whilst swinging on her swing. Yelling at Peaches for stealing her sandwich.
Okay, maybe not that.... but it WAS funny.
Especially when Uncle Joe got the blame initially.
The gifts she gave are priceless. She taught me patience and tolerance. She gave me... gave us all... unconditional and unlimited love.
A love that was never withheld from anyone who came through the door. Each visitor was greeted and hugged and sometimes even kissed. There is not a friend that I brought home who was not touched by her (literally and figuratively) and though it is 20 years or more since they walked through the back door, whenever I hear from them they always ask, “and how's Emmalou?”
The scriptures tell us that when we leave this earth and go to our heavenly home, we will be made resplendant in new and perfect bodies that will not age, that will not suffer infirmity or disease.
I cannot help but to wonder how, if I manage to make my way though those pearly gates, how will I recognize her?
And now the answer is quite clear to me. For it was never her handicap that made Emmalou who she was... but the bright and blinding love that she had for us all that made her truly remarkable. A love that was nurtured and nourished and encouraged by each of us here today. A love that touched us all.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that we owe it to ourselves and to Emmalou and even to Grandmom and Grandpop(because it was their courage and value of family that brought this gift into our lives instead of hiding it away) we owe it to them to remember the things that she taught us.
To find joy in the simple things. A perfectly sharpened pencil.
To take pride in your accomplishments no matter how small they may seem to others. There is no shame in bowling a 56 if you have bowled the best 56 that you can.
And to love one another. Even if it is a vile and moody teenager who heckles you to the point of frustration time and time again.
And if that day comes when I see Emmalou again in that perfect and shining form that God sees us in, if I fail to recognize her, if that love is not enough for me to see her for who she is... I guess I'll have to wait until she whispers in my ear, “Snake Stew.”
