Editorial: A Painful Trip Down Memory Lane
My siblings and I got a text from our mom in mid-February. She needed to call all three of us at once. Our minds screamed “Danger!” We knew that if it couldn’t be texted, it was almost always bad news. What we heard on that phone call sent us all back in time…
Our families grew up together: each of the three married couples included one Canadian expat and one American. Most of our parents were friends in college or met soon afterward. All three families had kids of similar ages, so it was always a good time when we got together. We were close enough that we called those adults who weren’t our parents “aunt” and “uncle.” It was a beautiful example of fictive kinship – chosen family.
We were especially close with one of the families. My dad was one of their dad’s best friends, and the same was true of my mom and theirs. Their daughter was between my older sister and I in age, and their son was born soon after my brother. Those boys were basically inseparable from birth.
Christmas, Memorial Day, Labor Day… If people had a reason to get together, we were gathering with these sweet family friends. The dads in both families taught elementary school, so we also celebrated holidays that most people don’t think about. For example, our Groundhog Day celebration was unparalleled. It became a consistent truth of these gatherings that when the adults yelled down to the kids that it was time to pack up, we had at least 30 more minutes. They enjoyed one another’s company as much as we loved being with our friends, if not more.
We were right – it was truly horrible news that my mother had to deliver to us. Our chosen uncle had suddenly died by his own hand. We were shocked: the man we knew as kids was the last person in the world we would have guessed would fall into such despair. At least on the outside, he was one of the friendliest extraverts and conversationalists I ever met.
Amazingly, our families were at Disney World together. It was a vacation we had never envisioned in our wildest dreams, and our parents used a scavenger hunt to surprise us with it. We had just finished up a day at Hollywood Studios by visiting their American Idol competition. One contestant from Australia ended up on the same transport we were on, and Uncle Steve (not his real name) started talking with him about all sorts of things. He never met a stranger, and he always displayed a welcoming spirit.
Grieving this news has been strange. I hadn’t seen Steve since before I started seminary. He and his wife moved out of state to be closer to her aging parents. When I was in high school or college, he switched from a career in teaching to a number of different things: my parents wonder if he lost sight of his purpose once he was squeezed out of his role in the third grade faculty. My heart breaks for his wife and kids: we haven’t seen much of them recently, either, but I can’t look back on my childhood without remembering the good times with their family.
So, here I am, both sad and grateful. I’m grateful this chosen uncle was part of my life, and I’m sad he’s gone too soon. I’m sad that his kids are not walking with Jesus and grieve as people without hope, but I’m grateful that because of his faith, he has experienced/will experience full healing. Life is precious: may we learn to appreciate the beautiful image-bearers all around us while we still have the chance, and thank the Lord for placing them in our lives even after they’re gone. I now affirm the final line of the Apostle’s Creed with more hope than ever: “I believe in the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting.”
This article is by Julia Hotchkiss, Alumni Office Student Worker.
Julia, thank you for your editorials and vulnerability and especially for sharing this one.