Her name was Emily. She lived next door to my family during my childhood years in Maxwelton, West Virginia. Emily was related to us by marriage; she was my grandmother’s sister-in-law. She never married and did not have children of her own. So, as she grew older, she adopted a group of kids whose families were connected to her family in various ways.
My brother and I were extremely fortunate in that we could easily walk to her house. If you grew up in the suburbs that might not seem like a big deal, but Maxwelton was not set up quite that way. Route 219 was a busy two-lane road, as country roads go. It’s true that the kids of my generation walked or rode our bikes a lot more than my own children do, but even the parents of the 1980s were hesitant to allow their children to do so on Route 219. While other kids usually had to get a ride to Emily’s house, David and I could go ever whenever we wanted.
Her home was an old, large brick house. It had four levels and was easily the most unique home I spent time in when I was a kid. Dark wooden floors, massive heavy pocket doors, high ceilings, a stuffed moose head, old furniture and an extremely creepy unfinished basement should have made me feel not so cozy in her home, but I cannot remember ever feeling uncomfortable. No doubt I was fascinated with the interesting features of that house and the vast number of rooms that I could never fully explore. However, the real reason I felt so at home in that place was the presence of Emily herself.
She loved us, and she never missed an opportunity to show it. Sometimes it was through generosity – we always knew she would be up for sharing some freshly popped popcorn and Coke – and sometimes it was through a very frank conversation. As a younger brother, I was a pretty sore loser and I remember her telling me that my threats to quit when losing a game made it a little harder to like being around me. Thinking back, I believe Emily mostly showed us love by spending time with us.
Whether it was working outside in the garden, feeding (and naming) the cows that roamed the field she owned, sitting on her front porch, watching game shows (our favorite was “The Price Is Right”), playing cards or eating a snack … Emily shared her life with us. We went to church together. She took us to the state fair in the summers. She told us stories of years gone by and listened as we talked to her about our interests. We made candles (does anyone do that anymore?), put white wildflowers into water with food coloring and watched them change color, made forts out of sheets and chairs and generally just enjoyed life together.
My family moved from Maxwelton to Lewisburg when I was about 12 years old. Our new home was only five miles from Emily’s house but we did not get to see her as much after that. We made it a point to visit her as often as we could. When I left Lewisburg and moved to Huntington to go to college, I made occasional weekend visits home and would drive out to Maxwelton every so often to spend time with Emily. She died in January 2000 at age 85. I had the privilege of having her in my life for almost 25 years.
From Emily, I learned the power of time and presence. We only have a certain number of moments as we travel this journey called life. Spending those moments building relationships with people we care about … this is the example Jesus set for us, and it’s one he is calling us to follow.
Dan Londeree 