Waiting for Death, servant of God

There is something very odd and almost awkward about waiting for the human body to “give up the ghost,” to die.

Perhaps the oddity was in the peace that filled the home of my Tia Concha. All her six children plus her brother were in the house on Saturday. They all lovingly approached to say they were there, that they love her, that it was OK to let go, to say goodbye.

Some hold vigils after a loved one dies. A vigil waiting for death to come seems more appropriate. My Aunt Connie – petite Mexican matriarch who bore six Minnesota natives – lay dozing in a recliner in her front room, surrounded by her family and looked down upon by the great cloud of witnesses awaiting to welcome her into the glorious presence of her Creator.

I sat on one side of the room quietly praying through the prayers for the dying (BCP 2019). Waiting for death is odd and foreign yet somehow right. We were there to remind Death – and ourselves – that it serves the King of Kings and not the Adversary. Death is meant to usher the faithful to Paradise into the presence of the Creator.

Concepcion Olivas Casas was born 17 February 1931, the second of seven children (my dad is the youngest). She was petite in stature but a giant personality full of vitality, strong opinions, and an even stronger laugh. She left El Paso as soon as she was of age and found herself in St. Paul, Minnesota. She married Archie Pickerign. They had six children – four boys and two girls – each with unique personalities, all towering over their mother, but she was in charge.

Concha (Connie) was old enough to be my grandmother. Her children, my first cousins, are old enough to be my aunts and uncles. Because we were in Texas and they in Minnesota, I hardly knew the Pickerign clan until I moved to Minneapolis in 2006. I could finally say I knew these cousins, that I knew my Tia. She loved that I could speak Spanish with her.

My cousins noticed my aunt’s temperature was quite warm, so they uncovered her feet to cool her off. My aunt’s feet were crossed arch-over-bridge, not unlike Jesus’ feet in so many crucifixes. Her feet sticking out of her blanket kept reminding me that death has been defeated by Jesus of Nazareth, God in the flesh who died for us. Jesus died for my Tia Concha and went on ahead of not only her but her dad and mom, her husband Archie, before all of us. Jesus is our great forerunner (Heb 6:20). In the ancient world, an important person traveling with their entourage would send a forerunner to announce their coming and to clear the way through the crowds. Jesus our Forerunner has burst into the throne room before the Ancient of Days proclaiming, “Father, they’re coming! The redeemed are coming! The people are coming! Concha is coming.”

At one point, it seemed that maybe my aunt was dreaming one of those dreams where you are not fully asleep so that your body moves to the images of the dream. She said something I could not make out and she very deliberately lifted her hand to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye. I hope she was seeing Jesus.

Early on Saturday afternoon, my cousin Pam rose suddenly and went to her mother. She pumped lotion into her hands and gently creamed her mother’s feet, still crossed. In Pam’s urgent action I saw Mary of Bethany anointing the feet of Jesus before his death (John 12). Jesus was certainly there with us, close to his servant Concha.

A little later, Connie thirst and asked for a drink. My cousin Rita raised a bottle to her lips. I prayed, “Oh beloved Yeshua, be near as Mary and John were at your dying.”

My parents and I sat vigil for three days, but Sunday afternoon we had to return to Pittsburgh. Friday, we all shared communion, my aunt still conversing and giving directives. Saturday, there was a heaviness and a stillness in the house. We all thought she might go that day, so her children knelt by her side one by one, praying and saying their goodbyes. Sunday, we all shared Morning Prayer together and commended Concha to God. Then we had to go. It was hard to leave. I would have waited until she was gone.

Tuesday morning, back in Pittsburgh, we got an early morning text saying that my aunt had passed. “My mamacita is home now,” wrote my cousin.

Revel in the presence of your Savior, tia, and laugh that BIG laugh with the saints. We’ll be over soon.