Obituaries. Once upon a time, you didn’t pay to put a loved one’s obituary in the newspaper. The information was submitted, and the editorial staff edited the information to match the style of the paper. As such, you never really saw verbiage such as “left this plane of existence to walk the heavens with her beloved pet goat she called Bagel.”
You also wouldn’t see an octogenarian or more described as having died unexpectedly.
Death is as much a part of life as birth, breathing, and taxes. We don’t like to face that this moment ends, because the reality is, no one knows for certain what exactly, if anything, lies on the other side of a heart that has ceased its perpetual rhythm. Still, there are moments when death is no surprise. Sometimes death is a gift: when a loved ones lengthy relationship with pain and suffering finally concludes, we feel relief and gratitude.
In that case, the idea of death is more bearable than the reality of endless agony.
Uncle Hank was not afraid of death. In fact, he not only built his next “home,” he had half a mind to remodel it! As we were visiting one day, he gestured to the two wooden boxes stacked beside my chair. He said his urn might not be done, as he might want to wire it for electric, in case he wanted heat.
This is when I got to know him best. Previous to this, my memories of Uncle Hank included hiding from him and his family when they would visit my grandma and grandpa, and the receiving line at my grandma, his sister’s, funeral. Uncle Hank hugged me that day, and whispered in my ear “you could be just like her.”
My grandma left this world at 70 years old. In my early twenties, this was the most devastating loss I’d ever experienced. It would be decades before I ever felt so destroyed over losing a loved one. Uncle Hank’s words brought me back to life in that moment, and in many moments that have followed in my life. I doubt I’ll ever live up to the possibility he proposed; but in that moment, I could see Uncle Hank was a man who looked for the best in life and the people that grow in it.
Decades passed, and it was a mutual appreciation for the old Storm farmstead that brought us together. In his late 80’s through early 90’s, Uncle Hank would drop by to see the old barn. Walking through and sharing memories of his childhood in the place my family now calls home. He was a time machine - transforming a dilapidated behemoth into a strong, steady shelter for farm animals and the family that worked it. I could again imagine great-grandma driving the horses that hoisted the swaths of hay into the mow. I could feel the angst when Junior fell out of the hay mow and broke his arm.
We could feel it, and we wanted the old barn back.
Restoring this building is more of an undertaking than I ever could have imagined. I had no idea I would face any resistance, let alone the WALLS of negativity I have come up against. People who think it’s impractical - people who took offense to my thinking others would feel the joy the project could bring and might want to contribute in some way.
In the face of all of that, a piece of me died. My hope took a massive hit. My faith in people I thought I could count on is lost. My heart feels slashed to ribbons.
In the middle of all of that, Uncle Hank found the words once more.
“You have time,” he said.
Even when I knew he didn’t.
He knew I did.
So gently the words came. As my frustration clouded my brain with hurt and confusion, his eyes, so clear, and easy was his voice. You. Have. Time.
He had faith, he planted a seed, and he wasn’t afraid to dream.
I have time, and I can’t help but hold fast to this dream.
We've taken some baby steps forward, and while I yearned for more, Uncle Hank drew joy from any inch of progress made, and any talk of the plans that lie ahead. That is the mantle it is time for me to take on.
On Monday, Uncle Hank’s time on this plane of existence ran out.
At 92, his death felt unexpected. He was still so full of life and hope that some part of me thought it would carry him through until we could walk into his barn, restored back to its former glory. At 92, he was still changing his world, and mine.
Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll be just like him one day.
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