I just needed to see her last Sunday

My Aunt Helen died on Monday evening in the manner which she said that she had wanted to. When I was told that the time was near there was something inside of me that just knew that I had to see her.

It is hard for me to see people that I know and love to be so close to death. There is something so unnatural about it and, yet, so natural as it is my destiny too. I have no idea what I accomplished there. We talked...well, I talked. I talked to her about how kind she always was to me and how much of a pain all of us kids must have been when we invaded her house. I talked about the pool table in the basement and the times we got to play outside in the "country". I talked about how much fun the Thanksgivings and Christmases were when we spent time with her.

It was all so overwhelming.

Her husband had preceded her in death and this closed a chapter for me but especially for her daughters. I told her that I was going to pray silently for her. I didn't want her to think that I had gone. So I prayed. And, after talking to her again, I just had to pray again. I don't think I could have prayed audibly. I wouldn't have gotten through it.

Then I touched her hand and knew that the only thing to do was to commit her to God. There was nowhere else for her to go. Nowhere. I prayed for her comfort and for God's peace to flood the minds of the ones that she was leaving here. She had to go...she had no choice. And she left here with the hope of heaven just like I will.

And then I walked away knowing that would be the last time I saw her here. I had to...I had no choice.


  1. I feel your pain. The night before my dad passed on, I sat by his bed and tried to pray, but the only thing I could choke out through the tears was, "Lord, please come and take my dad." We let him go. We had to. We had no choice. And all through the night we wondered if he would still be there by the time we returned the next morning. He waited until everyone was there before he flew away.

    1. Thanks for you encouraging words, Martha, and for stopping by. I am often caught between the transformative nature of death and its mind-numbing constraints. I don't know where to gaze at it in times like these, but look at it I must.


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