Singing Our Song…

One week ago tonight, I lost my “first like.”

Here, in this context, I can’t help thinking of it that way.  Because almost always – up until now – whenever I shared something like this (really, whenever I shared anything), my Aunt Debbie was the first to “like” (well, really, usually “love”) and support it.  And always, even in a world that makes something like that technically so easy, when it came to her – I knew for sure that it was far more than just a thumb tap.  It was real, genuine love.  It always was, and I’d always known it. 

On the last day I’d spend with her on earth, I got to tell her so. 

I’m so grateful that my sweet cousin, her beloved only daughter, made a point of letting me know when her hours were drawing short.  She generously invited me into that sacred time.  The drive and then the eventual walk to her bedside was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. 

When I arrived, I saw her body failing, but true to form:  Her spirit?  Never.  Her eyes lit with familiar love and recognition when I walked in.  I bent down to her cheek and whispered the absolute truth: 

“You are the best.  The very, very best.”  And I meant it.

Then I told her that on the drive there, I’d been playing “our song.”

Her voice was faint beneath the medical equipment helping her as she worked hard for each breath, but I clearly understood… With sincere brown eyes, she said, “I’d like you to sing it for me.” 

Oh, my.

“You want me to sing it for you… have you heard me sing??” I chuckled, and she smiled but didn’t waver from her request.  “I have it on my phone.  How about we play it?”  Yes.  She wanted that. 

…Very shortly after the diagnosis that would eventually lead us to this day (Albeit not nearly as quickly as the medical community expected it would… she was a fighter!), I heard this beautiful song… It instantly landed in my heart as the exact prayer I wanted to pray for her.  I’d never have come up with the words on my own, but they perfectly expressed what I wanted to ask God on her behalf. 

After one listen through, I pulled it up on YouTube and texted it to her.  I promised her that every time I heard it, I’d be singing those words as a prayer for her.  And I did.  I am no singer, so I mostly sang it in my heart and not out loud, but I know that God hears our hearts just as clearly as He hears our voices. 

I heard it often and offered it as a prayer for her every time.  Many times, I’d send her a quick text to let her know.  Every time, she’d text me back and say how much it meant to her.  For her birthday this past Christmas Eve, I gave her a framed print of the lyrics:

I pray for your healing.

That circumstances would change.

I pray that the fear inside would flee.

In Jesus’ Name. 

I pray that a breakthrough would happen today.

I pray miracles over your life.

In Jesus’ Name.

I pray for revival. A restoration of faith.

I pray that the dead would come alive.

In Jesus’ name. 

Now, on this last day, she wanted to hear it with me.  So, I pulled up Spotify, lay my phone near her, closed my eyes, and fought hard to keep myself together as I prayed “Our Song” – literally over her - one last time. 

She liked it.  And I’ll never forget it.

And then, her room began to fill up… to the point where it literally overflowed with people who love her.  Standing room only and spilling out into the hallway.  Her eyes roamed around, taking it all in.  With as sweeping a gesture as her pretty little hand could gather the strength to make just then, her soft gaze and faint voice once again communicated exactly what she meant to say. 

“You love all of us?”  I asked. 

She nodded.  Then I asked another question: “Do you know why this room is so full of people who love you?”  I also answered that question: “Because of how well you have loved us.”  Then I told her that, of all the things I’ve had to wonder in this life, whether or not she loved me – really loved me – had never been one.  I have always known that.  For sure.    

I think everyone in that room knew the same thing. Because she really did love us all.

A while back, I got to tell her that, too.  I told her what a special gift she had for, even in our BIG family, making every single one of us feel special… kind of like her favorite.  Just like my PaPa, her dad, did.   And from both of them, it was genuine.  The kind of love that makes people feel seen and known, even among a crowd.   

…I was born a couple of months before my Aunt Debbie graduated from high school.  Therefore, she always - and I mean always - called me her “graduation present.”  And she also always treated me like a gift. 

I guess in a way, she’s always been among my “first likes.” 

One of my earliest memories is of her taking me to her house; the two of us listening to 8-tracks of KC and the Sunshine band and looking at her bell collection.  As a little farm girl who lived in a farmhouse, I loved her sliding glass doors and her redwood deck!

Later, she had her own little girl, and she loved her with all her heart!  For me, that little girl would become not only a playmate, but also a lifelong friend, and on so many levels, a truly kindred spirit…

And still, Aunt Debbie took time with just me.  Like one special day when I was twelve.  She picked me up in her red Trans Am (Think Burt Reynolds:  Bird on the hood.  White leather interior!), and we went to the mall.  We jammed to the Beverly Hills Cop soundtrack on the way.  Axel F was the coolest song, and Aunt Debbie was the coolest aunt.  As proof of how charmed that day was for me, we even happened to stumble upon a much-sought-after Cabbage Patch Doll, and we bought him!  (A little blonde boy named Colin Ace…)

Aunt Debbie always treated me like I was beautiful and special - even in my awkward, chubby early-teen years.  And somehow, while in her presence, I could almost believe it...  Then later, when I grew up a little and Tommy came along, she loved him, too.  She was supportive, fun, and always up for anything.  Including one little Easter Sunday Trans Am vs. Cutlass Supreme drag race that, it turns out, most everybody but the three of us actually frowned upon…  But all’s well that ends well! 

She was always, always there for us. 

Then, she became the same for our kids.  In fact, this past week, my daughter commented, “I’ve been thinking about it.  She was so involved with us – especially for being our great aunt.”  She really was.  Because she really cared. 

Although my daughter was too young at the time to remember it now, it was Aunt Debbie who held her hand and walked us both 200-feet and 269 steps down the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse.  On the day when I discovered my susceptibility to height-induced panic attacks only after I’d charged right up all those steps with a two-year-old…

And for my son, she road-tripped every chance she got with my mom and other devoted aunts (often wading ankle-deep in mud) to watch him race motorcycles.  No matter the elements, she cheered him to the checkered flag every time.  She delighted as much as anyone did in his two National Championship titles.   

Whatever the occasion, we just always knew:  Aunt Debbie would be there. 

She made the best green bean casserole.  Not the kind with French fried onions and mushroom soup, but her recipe:  With sour cream and cheddar cheese.  It was always my request when she asked, “What can I bring?”  I’ve made it countless times myself, but mine has never been quite as good as hers…

She did a lot of things like only she could, and we were proud of her!

She earned so much love and respect in both business and community. 

A few years ago, we went to lunch - just she and I - to celebrate her retirement.  We drank wine at noon, then chased it with popcorn in a dark theater, sharing moments of “I’m not crying.  You’re crying!” as Lady Gaga belted out “I’ll Never Love Again” at the end of A Star is Born. 

But she really did always cry!  Everyone knew to expect it, certainly in sad times but also in the happiest times.  She wore her heart on her sleeve, and good naturedly took the equally good-natured ribbing that came her way about that.  Also, about her “diminutive stature,” and about her position as the middle of seven sisters; and the “middle child” jokes that often inspired. 

The way she lived that role, though, makes me see something else: 

As in the hub of a wheel, sometimes the middle - the one part connected to all the others – does the most important job: It holds them all together…

Back to that little girl of hers…

She grew up to become the sweetest, most seriously brilliant - yet genuinely humble - deeply beautiful from the inside all-the-way-out woman.  Paths and distance have made it so that sometimes, I’ve gone literal years without seeing her in person.  But even still, she always fits, like a missing puzzle piece, right back where she’s always been in my life and my heart.  Her genuine beautiful warmth and loving joy matched only by her devotion and strength:  All of which she’s so fully demonstrated in the way she’s cared for her sweet mom over the past year… I got to tell her that, although we’d never have chosen for Aunt Debbie to endure the battle she did, I know with all my heart that it made her proud that those circumstances gave everyone she loved a chance to see – really see, in action – the truly special stuff her beautiful girl is made of…  And we sure did. 

On that last visit I had with Aunt Debbie, on that last day, she kept working hard to say one other thing to me.  It sounded like, “I don’t know what happened…” Eventually, I began to think I might understand:

“Do you mean you don’t know how it all went so fast?  How you’ve already reached this point in your life?” 

Another nod: Her brow relaxing a little, knowing she was understood. 

What could I say to that?

Though we’d known this day was coming, it didn’t seem possible that for our lively, vibrant Aunt Debbie – we’d reached the last day.  The only answer I knew for sure poured forth from me: “God knows the number of our days before we ever live a single one… He’s always known exactly how many you’d have, and just look how beautifully you’ve used them!” 

That room full of people who loved her, because of how well she had loved, was a miracle over her life…

Her healing did come… In Jesus’ name.  And we will see her again.  Alongside Him, the Maker of all miracles. 

…Meanwhile, it'll take some time to adjust to missing my “first like.”

But because I’m certain of her eternal life, I do believe she can see this. 

I hope she loves it, and that it reminds her:  She was really always one of my first loves. 

It’ll probably make her cry - but the happy kind of tears.  Because where she is now, there is nothing but peace and joy.

,,,Also, because she’ll know that her beautiful love has been a miracle over my life. 

One that will live on in me, forever.