My Aunt Irene

The last time I spoke with my Aunt Irene, I was a little bit teary, and not unlike me, a bit unsure of myself.

She was quick to respond. “If you don’t know what you are doing, just read your blog,” she responded.

She was right, of course. If anyone knew what was on my blog, the documentation of my time in Berkeley, it was Aunt Irene. It seemed that so sooner than I posted my latest musings about my time at seminary, she was quick to respond and tell me what she thought.

And no sooner was I back in the Upper Delaware, or maybe even before, my mother informed me that my aunt was my biggest fan. I knew it to be true.

I knew it to be true, mostly because she always insisted that I call her Aunt Irene, even though, at fifty, I thought that I could just call her “Irene.”

But she insisted that I call her my aunt. She insisted that I recognize that I was in relationship with her. And I think that is what made my Aunt Irene special, special to a lot of people. The most important thing to her was the genuine and loving relationships that she could have with the people she cared about.

In a conversation with my cousin David a couple of days after her peaceful death, he assured me that if ever I am in doubt of myself, my Aunt Irene would be an angel on my shoulder. “I’m sure,” he said, “that she has already visited you several times since she passed on Saturday.”

I can only hope it to be true.

In this day of fragmented society, it’s reassuring to know that there are people who live unassuming lives that give the world, and those individuals within it, the gift of unconditional love and support, and unfailing family connection.

For that was what was important to my Aunt Irene. And I will be forever grateful for the gift of sharing that relationship with her.