August 23: "Love," Aunt Marian, Adoration

Tonight, I am writing about love.

In the past week, I've been getting messages from my sister about our aunt, my mother's youngest sister.  Last Friday, Aunt Marian had a stroke, although it seemed as though they caught it early enough.  No paralysis.  Speech only slightly slurred, but improving.  Swallowing with a little difficulty, but improving, as well.  Tonight, I found out that the doctors have discovered metastatic cancer throughout my aunt's body.  

I come from a very large family, with lots of aunts and uncles and cousins.  Love has always been abundant in my life.  Even though that love, for most of my adulthood, has been distanced by space (most of my relatives live around the Metro Detroit area), I still love them, and they love me.

My aunt and uncle made yearly pilgrimages to the Upper Peninsula to visit us in the past.  Aunt Marian married my dad's youngest brother.  That's right.  The baby of the family married the baby of the family.  And, when I was around them, it was obvious how much they respected and adored each other.

Billy Collins writes about adoration and love . . . 

Love

by: Billy Collins

The boy at the far end of the train car 

kept looking behind him 

as if he were afraid or expecting someone 

and then she appeared in the glass door 

of the forward car and he rose 

and opened the door and let her in 

and she entered the car carrying 

a large black case 

in the unmistakable shape of a cello. 

She looked like an angel with a high forehead 

and somber eyes and her hair 

was tied up behind her neck with a black bow. 

And because of all that, 

he seemed a little awkward i

n his happiness to see her, 

whereas she was simply there, 

perfectly existing as a creature 

with a soft face who played the cello. 

And the reason I am writing this 

on the back of a manila envelope 

now that they have left the train together 

is to tell you that when she turned 

to lift the large, delicate cello 

onto the overhead rack, 

I saw him looking up at her 

and what she was doing 

the way the eyes of saints are painted 

when they are looking up at God 

when he is doing something remarkable, 

something that identifies him as God.

I've always been drawn to the final image of this poem, the boy looking up at the girl like a saint having a vision of God.  I can see it--that boundless veneration for something/someone that seems perfect and unattainable.  The purity of that love, before cruelty or heartbreak shatters it.

I'm not saying my aunt is a saint or a god.  We're all human beings, dealing with out own failings and wants.  But my memory of Aunt Marian is one of love.  My wife and I got married on the same day (October 14) that my aunt and uncle got married.  They came to our wedding, danced at the reception together.  I've always felt incredibly connected to them because of that.

Aunt Marian doesn't want any extraordinary measures to sustain her life.  She's told her daughter that she wants to go home to die.  After all the arrangements have been made, that is exactly what is going to happen.  Palliative care and home, where she and my uncle (who passed a few years ago) lived, loved, and adored each other for so, so long.

I've learned so much by watching people like my aunt and uncle love each other and their family.  When I look at my wife or daughter or son, I hope people see the same kind of love in my eyes.  Sacred.  Holy.

Saint Marty loves his aunt.

Photo by Abbigail Berry