“Do not
be anxious for anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with
thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God.” –Philippians 4:6 (ESV).
I
could have been younger than eight when I first experienced death of someone dear
to me. But I remember several dear kin with serious illnesses that ended in
death from the time I was eight and onward.
My first impression of a death that touched me deeply was that of my
Great Uncle Dallas, my mother’s uncle, in 1938.
He was a kindly gentleman, wise and interesting to listen to as he told
of life as it had been when he was young.
My family liked to visit him. He
became very ill, and although we prayed for him, we got the word of his death. My mother went to help her cousin Aria, Uncle
Dallas’s daughter, make all the arrangements for the “laying out” of the corpse
and preparations for the funeral, including cooking for the large crowd of
relatives that came from near and far.
My father helped Moody, Aria’s husband, make the homemade casket in
which to bury Great Uncle Dallas. As a
young child of eight, observing all this activity at that mountain home, I
became aware that, even though the people were sad, they set about the tasks
before them with resolve and stoicism. They
seemed to find comfort in talking about the good life of faith Great Uncle
Dallas had lived. Very early, at age
eight, I learned of belief and a very important adage that my Christian
relatives lived by: “Thanksgiving is the
antidote to worry and grief.”
Later
that same year we learned that my Aunt India, my mother’s older sister, had
cancer. Although Grandfather took her to
Downey’s Hospital in far-away Gainesville for help, the doctors at that time
did not have adequate treatment for invasive cancer. She lived a few months, in great pain much of
the time. She died on April 2, 1939, a
little more than a month before I turned nine.
I was especially sad at her passing, for she had taught me already how
to embroider, and helped me to make a “Dutch Doll” quilt top. Poor as my beginning stitches were, and as
much as I yet had to learn about sewing, Aunt India was a mentor to me. I was bereft at her passing and wondered how
I would ever overcome my grief at such a young age. But I learned to remember Aunt India’s smile,
her words of encouragement, the patience and devotion she extended to me. I learned to give thanks for the loving life
of this “old maid” aunt, sister of my mother, who had loved me unconditionally.
The
next death that affected me greatly came when I was eleven years old. On December 17, 1941, shortly after Pearl
Harbor was bombed on December 7, and the United States declared and entered
World II. My brother Eugene and cousins
Clyde and others had volunteered to go into the Army Air Force. Clyde, who had a car, came to tell us that
Grandfather, who had also suffered with dread cancer for several months, had
died. When I saw Clyde’s car approaching
our house, I knew that he was bringing news of Grandpa’s death. Again I had to remember that “Thanksgiving is
the antidote to worry and grief.” During
the time of Grandpa’s wake and funeral, I was just one of many of his young
grandchildren and other relatives who heard accolades of his life. Many talked of the good and progressive
farmer he was, ahead of his time in progress by installing a Delco power plant
to provide electricity for his mountain home; running a country store at which
he allowed poor people to have things on credit and loaned money to those in
dire financial straits; having at mill
and sawmill at which people ground their corn and sawed logs into lumber; of how
well he represented his county as a state legislator. Grandpa was gone, but his influence and
memory lingered on.
Then
came that Valentine’s Day in 1945, with my brother Eugene wounded somewhere in
an Army Hospital in Italy, and my mother very ill at our Choestoe home. I was fourteen when my mother died. This death was definitely the most
devastating I had experienced so far.
Overnight, I grew from a young teenager of fourteen to an adult with
more responsibility than my young years could seem to bear. Since nine I had been a Christian, and
already I had developed a strong faith, thanks to good teachers and good
Christian examples. Philippians 4:6 had
gratefully become one of my life verses.
At my dear mother’s funeral, our pastor, Rev. Claude Boynton, read and
expounded upon Proverbs 31:10-31 as a summary of my mother’s exemplary life. At that point, sad as I was, I gave thanks
for having a godly mother and determined that when I should come to the end of
my own life, I would have lived, with God’s help, to be worthy of having the
same scripture passage read at my funeral.
Perhaps
this “Insights and Inspiration” piece has been too sad, too personal. My intention is for it to represent victory,
the joy of living an overcoming life, of being able to release anxiety and
adopt thanksgiving as a way of life. A
dear younger friend recently wrote, “My tears became prayers that only God
could understand and answer.” What joy
can come, even in grief, if we but allow God’s power to shine through. –Ethelene Dyer Jones 08.04.2013.
