Aunt Jean

This post is more theraputic than anything. A month ago my Aunt Jean died and I just have not felt like blogging, hence the 4 or 5 posts yesterday and this one today. I have found that there have been moments where I have been so heart-broken or in such disbelief that I cannot hear anything around me. Time just stands still.
On my flight back after her funeral at the beginning of November, I wrote the following thoughts and so I publish them today as I pause to think of her great life and the hole that has been left because of her death.
Monday November 9, 2009
This past Saturday I buried my Aunt Jean. She was only 42. She fought cancer for 12 years. She was the poster child of graciousness and endurance. Through her struggle, she developed a deep relationship with Christ. She believed 100% in the Providence of God- not that she didn't doubt it or wish it to be different, but she always chose to speak of God's hand on her life than to dwell in self-pity.
During the last month of her life, when we knew the battle with cancer had been lost, I found all sorts of comfort from God. However, during the week that followed her death, I felt nothing. I was not relieved that her battle was over. I was overcome with grief that she was gone. I was sick at heart over what my dad, uncle, and aunts were going through.
While I knew that God had planned this, I still just felt empty. At the Friday night viewing and rosary, I was in disbelief. How can this be true? How can Aunt Jean's beautiful spirit no longer be on this earth? Saturday morning began and I was dreading the day. I prayed to the Lord that He would grant me extra relief that day. As I went on my morning walk, it was gray and foggy, as it is normally in the morning in LA. I had hoped for sun, but found comfort in the enveloping fog and grayness.
The funeral went better than I thought. I ended up on the aisle sitting closest to Jean's closed casket. The casket is the most dreadful thing at a funeral, if you ask me. However, on this day I found comfort having the earthly remains of her body near me. I guess because I couldn't help but notice the casket, God used that service to drive home the truth- she is not here. Her soul and spirit are with the Lord. The grief over her absence began to turn to comfort.
Then came the most awful part of any funeral, the burial. I agreed with my dad when he said, "I don't mind visiting a tombstone, but I dread seeing the casket and the grave." It is just so final. I stood there with the thought, "This is it." Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. I always feel as if I just want one more hug, one more touch. As I sat there next to the casket, and the priest read the liturgy, I looked up to the sky.
I hadn't noticed, but the fog had lifted and the sun was shining. When the short service was over, I stood up quite unsure where to go and wouldn't you know? God blew the wind. As my family members milled about me, God blew a refreshing breeze that felt like it came straight off the ocean. I knew He was saying to me, "All the words I gave you before Jean died are true, the grief and the silence you have felt this week are true, and you are going to make it. Trust in me and I will pull you through."
I never know when the Lord is going to show up, but I know by wating and watching for Him, I cannot miss Him, nor can I miss the peace that passes all understanding that He wants to extend over me. I am not saying that I have sealed Aunt Jean's death up in a box and all is well. However, I think that in these moments of despair, I have a choice. I can wallow in the muck and mire feeling no hope and just looking at the grave or I can look to the sky and watch for God to guide me through. It is a choice- a part of our free will. And this time around God has given me the strength to choose the latter.
I love you, Aunt Jean.