In memoriam: Hertha Holstein

In the last two weeks there have been three deaths in the various worlds to which I belong -- church, my daughter's world of friends, and today, family. My Aunt Hertha died this morning, peacefully, in her sleep. She was my long-dead father's younger sister, mother of the cousins I grew up with, a first-grade teacher, firm, formidable, even a little scary, at least from the point of view of my nine-year-old self.

I am trying to hold all this sadness and grief carefully, fully, lightly, while trusting that life, that resurrection, triumphs. So much of who I am, of where my Christian family roots are, can be found in Hertha -- and so today I am thinking about who she was -- or at least who I knew her to be.

Hertha was an outspoken woman of faith. She knew her Bible and her Lutheran theology and could (and would) go head-to-head with almost anyone. She preached the love of Jesus to her many classes of kindergartners and first graders at the Lutheran parochial school where she taught. In retirement she led Bible classes. Always she paid attention. She showed up for people in need.

Here's a story I heard directly from her. Long ago, when I was a child, Hertha started a Sunday School class for people with intellectual disabilities. She wrote the lessons and her husband, Herman, drew illustrations. Her kids and others helped out in the class, and when Christmas rolled around she insisted that the children and young adults in her class be included in the Sunday School Christmas program. She got a surprising amount of pushback from the Sunday School leaders, but she went straight to Pastor Erwin Paul and together they set some people straight about who all was fully included in the kingdom of God and what that meant for Sunday School Christmas programs in God's church.

Hertha was a knitter. She was not good at sitting still and I'm sure knitting was a way to deal with this. She knit through meetings and through her sons' wrestling meets. She knitted and crocheted lap robes for veterans served by the nearby VA hospital, combining colors from donated and purchased yarn, often successfully; sometimes, well, with originality.

Through the years, as I've talked with people I know who knew Hertha back in the day, I've heard many fiercesome stories. At the core of many of these is something she said with great conviction but a shortage of tact. This was one of the differences between my dad and his sister. He was patient and tactful, if occasionally clueless. She was impetuous and outspoken. He was the son, petted and doted upon by his mother and aunts. She was the girl with opinions of her own, restless and rebellious against the "good, quiet girl" standards imposed by church and society and reiterated by her mother and aunt.

Born a generation later, Hertha might have entered the ministry--though she would have had to part ways with the Lutheran church in which she grew up. Many years ago, when un-ordained me was the homilist at a mid-week Lenten service at my church, she came to hear. I treasure that.

Hertha was far gone into dementia at her death. I had not seen her since Christmas 2017, when she gave a welcoming speech at the extended-family Christmas celebration, saying "I don't know who you are, but I'm glad you're all here." Did we all say grace at that point? I don't think so -- we'd done it a half hour before, but whatever. That evening she insisted that my daughter, Eliza (who has Down syndrome) come and sit by her for a while. Eliza has had some experience with people with Alzheimer's, so she sat and answered Hertha's questions, many of them more than once.

In ordinary times, when I think about heaven, my ideas are pretty abstract. I try to hold the not-knowing that is appropriate for one who is a creature contemplating her eternal Creator. But in the hours and days after someone I know and love has crossed the River Jordan,  I revert to the concrete--to the image of my dad perched on the bench of the great heavenly organ with J. S. Bach himself turning the pages. I imagine my son Kris on a lawn by a lake, running hard to catch a Frisbee, gracefully and in good humor, with a bottle of Island Wheat in his other hand.

Today I imagined Hertha entering heaven, meeting old friends, getting caught up on the news, slowly recalling names that she had not been able to remember on earth. She's talking to other Lutherans who've gone before her about forgiveness and humility, God's love for little children, and how to crochet a granny square.  And I'm pretty sure she probably has a few things she's planning to say directly to God, who is smiling and ready to listen.