Pastor Emily Joye May 2015 Congregationalist

This is Aunt Rose. She is my spouse's father's sister. She is the oldest of 10 Reynolds siblings descended from Joseph and Martha Reynolds. She is 92. I met her while on a pilgrimage with J.R., Aurora and Isaiah to Hammonton NJ where the Reynolds' spent summers together. I met many beautiful souls in Hammonton for the first time while on vacation last week, people who share DNA and histories of love, laughter, aging, death, geography, and separation. I met cousins, aunts and uncles, family members by marriage, ages spanning all the generations. But the encounter with Aunt Rose stands out the most. Here's why.

I didn't grow up knowing much about my biological connections. That felt like a huge loss I didn't  even know I'd endured until

it was too late to do anything about it. But then God did what God does and connected me to family genealogists. I remember the first time I saw pictures of my brother and sister and their kids on Facebook: we all share my biological father's nose. I cried and cried seeing the family resemblance. It felt like reconnecting to parts of myself that, again, I didn't even know were lost. All this to say, when I began having children, making sure they had/have access to their ancestors was/is a huge priority for me.

Isaiah will never meet his grandpa, Joseph Reynolds II. He died at the age of 59 in 1984-too early. I grieve that loss even though I never met the man. His wife, Vivian Reynolds, and his daughter and son Susan Reynolds and Joseph Reynolds will often tell stories about him at the dinner table. I thank God for those stories. They help paint a picture. But I knew as soon as I saw Aunt Rose that I wanted to hear stories about Isaiah's grandpa from her. She'd grown up with him. She was his sister. But it wasn't her family status that clued me in. It was that she started crying the minute J.R. walked in the door. She got filled with the Holy Spirit in ways that I imagine only those of us who pay real close attention to the way grief and wonder wrap up in each other can understand. J.R. leaned down to kiss her and I thought her knees would fall out. It was a happiness this world can't give nor take away. Their reunion incarnated something. I felt Joseph Reynolds II in the room. Aunt Rose's tears just kept coming; they ushered him in.

Tears mean something. They mean something spiritual and significant. When our elders cry, we ought to lean in and ask them to pour out the world for us. They hold universes within them.

She sat on the couch quietly for most of the visit. She kept staring at Isaiah saying how much he looked like Ian and Quinn--her great grandsons. It's true; they look exactly alike. Before it was time to go, I got on my knees and asked her about her brother. She smiled into my eyes and just kept saying "ohhh, he was such a good man." Then she looked at J.R. and said "like him, outgoing and happy personality. He would do anything for anyone." She couldn't say much else. I don't know if it was overwhelming to be asked such a far reaching question or if memory loss might have been in the mix--but she left it at that. We got up to leave and she burst out in tears again, like a yearning within her couldn't take yet another separation. J.R. leaned and kissed her and said "you go ahead and cry." So she did while she held him tight. And Isaiah was there to witness the whole thing.

Sometimes we share through stories. Other times recipes, landmarks, and/or traditions passed down. Many times it's tears. And they are generous and real enough. This is how we bear witness. This is how we keep each other alive in the present and over years. This is the work of incarnation and resurrection.