If you’re fortunate and willing, you will meet
people—common, everyday people with no agenda, no self-serving intentions, and no motivations other than curiosity and care—who will leave an impression on you that runs so
deep, so intense, and so profound that you have no control over how it shapes
you. It just will.
The impression those people make on you will weave
itself so decisively into your core, you will be changed, even if you can’t
fully realize and understand it. You will be new, and you will be better for it.
If you’re fortunate enough in your time in this
world, you will meet those people who will cause you to stir. Who will cause
you to question. Cause you to look hard within and question your intentions.
Cause you to take inventory, size yourself up, and make some hard conclusions.
If you’re fortunate, you will meet individuals who will
cause you to see your surroundings in a new light. Who will make you think in
ways you didn’t know possible. Who will present you with insight and information
you didn’t possess. Who will ask about you. Take interest in you. Hold you
accountable to yourself and others. Who will exchange honesty. Who will teach
integrity. Who will invest in you because that’s who they are: Others come first,
self comes last.
When that happens, if it happens, it’s redefining. It’s
integral. It’s authentic. It’s intoxicating.
When it happens, you aren’t left the same. You’ve
been remolded. Reshaped. Reformed. Reinvigorated. You’ve been lifted up and
made more powerful. More complete. More competent. More responsible. You’ve
simply been made more.
June Preston—dear, sweet Aunt June to my family—is
one of those people for me.
We were introduced through my wife, her niece. We bonded
initially over discussions about religion. She’s a devote Catholic and practices
her faith with conviction and honor. She believes because it’s in her heart to.
It’s in her mind to. It’s her calling to. It’s her plan and destiny. That made
me believe in her. Later, it made me believe in myself.
We bonded over stories of her time in Philadelphia
and Memphis, places she lived and raised a family in.
We bonded over our mutual fascination of the South,
a place she went to as a girl during the summers to spend on her grandparents’
farm, and the lessons she learned there, which touched me decades later.
We bonded over our mutual love our children, her
love for mine and my love for hers.
We bonded over our love of nature and sunsets and
sunrises. Of mystery. Of the magic of beauty. Of our explainable attraction to nature’s
gifts.
We just bonded. Because I was fortunate. Because I
was willing. Because I needed her in my life, and I didn’t even know it.
Now, she’s in her last days, surrounded by the
family she’s loved and who have loved her. I know in her heart and in her mind,
she’s prepared. Her faith has readied her. Her belief and her love have made her
brave and able. Made her deserving for what surely awaits her lovely soul.
I’d like to take her hand right now. In these divisive,
bitter times, when my anxiety is at its worst, when my faith is bottoming out,
when my discipline is constantly being tested, I’d like to take her hand.
I’d like to hear her sweet voice circle those delicate
but confident words around my ears one more time.
I’d like to let her infectious laugh empower my
spirit like it always has.
I’d like to let her in to investigate my opinions,
my thoughts, my faith.
I’d like another chance to sit down over tea and learn
from her.
I’d like to give her time.
But I don’t really fear death. And I don’t fear that
the years ahead, when our words and lessons and backyard conversations watching
the sun dip into the horizon are no longer possible.
I don’t fear that our bond will fall apart. We toiled
together to construct it. During our visits in person. During our conversations
delivered digitally. During my own moments alone when a sunset or sunrise
floored me so complete with its presence that it demanded I think of Aunt June
and wonder if she’s seeing what I am right now, knowing if she was she’d be as
humbled and grateful as I.
I don’t fear that time and the unknown will even
chip the bond in the slightest, let alone cause it to crumble.
I don’t fear this because I’ve been fortunate and
willing. To meet her. To allow her in. To embrace the impression she carved in
me. It runs too deep and true and long to dissipate or disappear with time.
I don’t fear death or time because I celebrate what
she gifted me, which regrettably was far, far more than I gave her.
For that I celebrate her and hold her up high.
I’ve been so very fortunate.
