My Uncle, Reprise

Last March I wrote a blog post called, "My Uncle."  I'd called it that because my grandfather had just died and I had watched the men in my family rise to their full stature, the way they always do in every small and large crisis.  I wrote:

My uncle is brave.  My uncle is kind.  My uncle is patient and long-suffering.  My uncle is steady, faithful, and honest.  My uncle is wise.  My uncle is dignified.  My uncle is graceful and noble.

The evening before my grandparents' viewing, my Tío Emiro shared with us how he came to know our family.  He had endured great suffering in Columbia's violence in much the same way my grandfather and his siblings had.  He'd been orphaned, his parents murdered.  He told us how he went down to the river to play with other neighborhood children and heard the story of a Man who, being fully God, died on the cross for the sins of the world.  He told us how he believed.  He told us how God provided for him, a poor orphan boy in a poor country in a time of crisis, first to be welcomed into a new home as a son, then to come to America with his young bride--my aunt, my grandfather's sister--and make a life that smelled sweetly of the aroma of Christ.  "I've never been a rich man," he would say, "but I've always lived richly."

My Tío Emiro died today.  I sat at the kitchen table with his children this afternoon as they recounted the faithfulness of their father.  His dying breaths were "gospel, gospel."  They told us how intensely he loved the people around him, how he won them over--and I watched neighbor after neighbor come by and share their grief.

My uncle, my Tío Emiro, was brave and kind and patient and long-suffering.  He was steady, faithful, honest, and wise.  He was dignified, graceful, and noble.  And now he has gone to be with the Lord.

Yes, Ms. Deirdre Sullivan, I agree.

My friend recently shared this from NPR's "This I Believe" series.

When my grandfather and his wife died, a long, long line of people came to the services and testified to us of the love and compassion my grandparents had shared with them. Friends far away sent love and thoughts and prayers--and even oranges. Dear friends nearby cooked, cleaned our apartment and my car, and washed weeks of dirty laundry for us so we could get about putting our lives back together.

Yes, Ms. Deirdre Sullivan, I agree. Always go to the funeral. Always do what you can.

Family Reunions

On Tuesday, Michael and I rode down with my mother, my uncle, and two of my cousins to Maryland for a not-so-happy sort of family reunion. My Great-Aunt Sylvia passed away last Friday, and Tuesday we were gathering for a funeral and burial.

Tia Sylvia was the last of her generation, the middle child of the five children my great-grandfather had with his fourth and last wife, my great-grandmother. And so, the American branch (or at least the Mid-Atlantic branch) of the Flores family came together, Tuesday morning at 11:00 am in Greenbelt, MA to pay final respects to her and to that generation.

In attendance were:
From the Clan of Mariana Flores: My mother, two uncles, one aunt, two cousins, my grandfather and his wife, Michael and myself.

From the Clan of Edilberto Reyes: two cousin-uncles (as we call them), their wives, and their combined seven children.

From the Clan of David Flores: two cousin-uncles, one aunt, and their combined six children.

From the Clan of Sylvia Flores: two cousin-aunts, one cousin-uncle, and their combined seven children.

(Ismael Flores, who died in his youth, had no clan to represent him.)

These forty persons represent only a fraction of the Flores family. There remain at least seven more cousin-aunts/uncles in Honduras, their spouses, and their children, as well as those spread throughout the United States, and perhaps throughout the world.

Though the circumstances of this particular reunion were less than ideal, it allowed me the space for contemplation that the previous three reunions (a.k.a. weddings) did not provide. For the first time, I was impressed with the sheer size of my family tree. I have, of course, always known my extended family was...extensive. Besides the Flores family, there is also the Viera family, the Sauceda Family, and the Rodriguez family, each at least as large as the Flores, if not larger. But on Tuesday, as I observed each of my cousins mourning the oldest generation, I was deeply impressed that so many people share some little bit of blood, of genetic code, of history with me.

I was also deeply impressed with the connection we continue to maintain despite the very mobile lifestyles each member enjoys. Despite the fact that my great-grandfather never left his hometown, his progeny have spread not only to various Honduran cities, but many American cities, across several states, as well. But as it has always been true since I can remember, when we come together it's as if no time has passed at all. There are just more children.

I was most deeply impressed, however, by how little I know of our own story. Of who they all were before America, before me, before. And as I watched my youngest cousins drop roses into my great-aunt's grave, I thought about how much story is left to tell, and how few are left to tell it.

And maybe this is what I mourned most when I mourned my great-aunt Sylvia, the last of her generation.