I’ve spent much of today with family, saying goodbye to my great aunt, Jo Evans, who died the end of last week at 102. I was a pallbearer this morning with my brother and cousins, then there was a luncheon, and finally a memorial service this afternoon at Shandon Baptist Church, where she was the oldest member, having joined 70 years ago.
Once, when I was young enough to be taken aback at the notion — I don’t think I’d ever been to a funeral at the time, and didn’t know what was expected, but supposed they were nothing if not somber — my Uncle Woody (who of course was there today) and I were looking at a family album, and as we viewed a page of candid shots of smiling relatives happily chatting in their Sunday best, he remarked that the Paces always had a good time at funerals. Meaning they enjoyed each other’s company. Jo’s, and my maternal grandmother’s, maiden name was Pace. They were from Marion.
Today was the biggest gathering of Paces — and Collinses and Warthens and many other branches — in a number of years, and we all enjoyed one another’s company, as we have for generations.
We also enjoyed the kind presence of others, such as Shandon Baptist Pastor Dick Lincoln, and Minister of Senior Adults Jerry Long, and the talented singers who Jo had particularly wanted to perform at her funeral, as she and my mother had planned it out a year and a half ago.
And still others, such as Lanier Jones, president of ADCO — who knew Jo many, many years before he knew me. He knew her through her job at Tapp’s department store, where she worked into her mid-80s.
That was the thing that people kept marveling over today: In terms of health and having her faculties about her, Jo was until only weeks ago not much different from my very first memories of her. Dick Lincoln said that if we knew we could be that healthy, we’d all want to live to be 102. Jerry Long said she was briefly lucid again when he visited her the night before she died. That was not the case when I saw her hours before she died, which was a shock to me.
Four of my children, and three of my grandchildren, were with us at the church today. Over the weekend, I suddenly realized that to my grandchildren, Aunt Jo was the sister of their great-great grandmother. That’s the same relationship I have to the Civil War generation. Five of my great-great grandfathers (think about it; you get eight) were South Carolinians who served the Confederacy in uniform.
Then, with a further jolt, I realized that when my grandmother — Jo’s sister — died, the morning after Neal Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin first walked on the moon, I was almost exactly the same age my eldest granddaughter is now. Jo’s husband, whom I barely remember, died in 1960.
And yet, so very long after her contemporaries were gone — we lost her last sister in the early ’90s — Jo carried on, active in work, in her church (where she sang in the choir, including Shandon’s renowned Singing Christmas Tree), and in her community. She had no children, but she had a wealth of nieces and nephews and their descendants, and she was a part of all their lives.
I tell you all this because that’s where I’ve been today and that’s what I’m thinking about. But I also share it to help you understand just how shocking I found Rick Stilwell’s death on Friday, only hours after we lost Jo. Even though I only knew him in the virtual sense, as RickCaffeinated. The irony was reinforced on Sunday, when their pictures were practically side-by-side on the obit page (see above). Rick Stilwell was 44, living his life, driving down the street, when he just died, without any sort of warning. Rick would have been a babe in arms when my grandmother died. So Aunt Jo outlived her, essentially, by Rick Stilwell’s whole life.
Words are inadequate to describe the emotional distance between what his family is experiencing today and what mine did. I am so, so sorry for their loss.
We just don’t have the slightest idea, do we? We could go right now. Or we could continue, without even slowing down much, until we’re almost 103.
Yeah, I know that lots of people have realized this before. It’s in the Bible, and everything. But I say it because that’s what I’m thinking about today.
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It’s trite, but I really am sorry for your loss.
You and I are close to the same age, and increasingly I find myself contemplating my own mortality. Worse, I find myself contemplating the potential physical and/or mental infirmities that seem to precede the final denouement. And it’s those latter issues that concern me far more than simply passing on.
In the tune “Life is Eternal,” Carly Simon ponders the fate of the soul…
Will it soar like Jazz on a saxophone / Or evaporate on a breeze?
She presupposes that a soul even exits. I dunno. Either way, I hope my end is never a burden on my family and friends emotionally, physically or monetarily. And, to that end, I’m doing everything I can now to ensure my best chances…from modest exercise…to regular doctor visits…taking my meds…and ensuring that all my legal and medical documents reflect my desires.
And, at the end, maybe I will go out like President John Sheridan in Babylon 5, who simply announced that he was “…going for a Sunday drive…” and departed entirely on his own terms at his own time without tears or recriminations.
But for me, unlike you, the Bible has nothing to do with it.
I’m sorry for your loss. She sounds like she was awesome!
The presence and the absence of life. An ever-going procedure of recycling. None of us are permanent. We need to appreciate those we hold dear when they are here with us.
Obviously, you did so and your memories will shield and protect you and enrich your soul.
Thank you so much, Brad, for sharing this intimate moment with all of us.
I’m a lurker. Your blog entry reminded me of my family dynamics.
RIP Aunt Jo
Peace and good thoughts to you and your family.
I appreciate this, Brad. Hard for me to comment. My mother is in hospice now. I have already had my break-down for today, but this kind of sent me back to it.
It’s just so hard….
I’m sorry, JoanneH!
Thank you. We have good and bad days. The hospice group we are using is wonderful. I just want to keep her out of the hospital. She hates it. And they are helping with that at least.
Thank God for hospice!
Yes! They are wonderful!
Sorry for your family’s loss, Brad. It’s wonderful that your great aunt was able to live as long a life as she did, and to be healthy and have her mental faculties intact right up until the end. I think that’s the best way to live and ultimately, to go out.
Include me among those sorry for this tough week. Sounds like your aunt had a full and long life. And that’s something to be thankful for.
Oh, absolutely. That was kind of my point. The going-away for Jo was all pretty positive, with everyone celebrating how long she got to live and how healthy she stayed for almost all of that time.
Just the opposite of what the Stilwell family is going through, and will continue to go through.
But I thank everyone for the condolences.
Brad, I empathize and sympathize with you on the loss of your great aunt. As I grow older and reflect on life and the people who have made a difference, whether in person or on a blog like this one with a great group of commenters, reading about your aunt and the obvious great affection you had and still have for her and the life she lived, it brought to mind one of my favorite songs by one of my all time favorite composers and singers, John Denver. The title of the song he wrote and sang is “Around and Around”. The words are posted for you to read and hopefully, the last three stanzas will have meaning for you. I know they have a world of meaning for me when I think of my Mom.
Time as I’ve known it
Doesn’t take much time to pass by me
Minutes into days turn into months turn into years
They hurry by me
Still I love to see the sun go down
And the world go around
Dreams full of promises
Hopes for the future
I’ve had many
Dreams I can’t remember now
Hopes that I’ve forgotten
Faded memories
Still I love to see the sun go down
And the world go around
And I love to see the morning
As it steals across the sky
I love to remember
And I love to wonder why
And I hope that I’m around
So I can be there when I die
When I’m gone
I hope that you will think of me
In moments when you’re happy
And you’re smiling
And that the thought will comfort you
On cold and cloudy days
If you are crying
And that you’ll love to see the sun go down
And the world go around
And around and around
Your aunt Jo was a really memorable character. Loved your reflections on the uncertainties of our exit date.There’s profundity in the certainty of our first day and the uncertainty of our last. Those two bookends seem to me to make life a great gift from God and to cause enough uncertainty that we need to trust Him all the time. Thanks for your thoughtful blog.
Thanks, Dick!
And as I just said on Twitter, thanks for lunch today. I can talk about that stuff (theology, doctrine, history, political science, books) all day…