Sleep in Heavenly Peace

by Janine Simons, 25 December 2000, in memory of Alta Adamson Nash

The whispers and giggles rose up through the vents from the floor below. Who needs an alarm clock on Christmas morning? The tree and its ever-growing base of gifts, the cookies, and carols only heightened their youthful enthusiasm throughout the previous days and weeks. Now the day had finally arrived!

The children knew the stockings and presents would need to wait so we could remember the One whose life we were celebrating. They patiently listened as we called the angels' announcement, the shepherd's awe, a mother's touch. The retelling of the Timeless Story and the hush of that hour brought home the reminder that through the birth of Jesus Christ, we had already received the Gift that mattered most. “Silent Night, Holy Night."

And then they were off! Their squeals of delight and thank you’s flowed freely, their smiles reflecting in the twinkling lights of the tree. But all too soon it was over. It has always amazed me how quickly the preparations of a month or more can be reduced to empty boxes and piles of paper.

These early hours had been satisfied with all the excitement of Christmas. The sights, the smells, the sounds filled the air. Yet as they reveled in the wonder of their gifts, I sensed a lack within my soul. I sought the stillness and peace of that Sacred Morning. And I knew where to find it.

The first thing I noticed as I climbed behind the wheel was the silence.  It felt almost foreign yet, oh, so welcome. I drove through the quiet streets.  “All is calm, all is bright”, sang the comforting melody in my head.  I looked to the cars beside me.  No one else was alone.  They were filled with family and loved ones, hurrying to homes to share the joy of this Christmas morn.  

I found a parking stall in the near-empty lot. The cold winter air rushed into my lungs as I opened the door. Snow crunching under my feet, I paused and looked up to her window then quickened my pace.

“Good morning and Merry Christmas,” smiled the receptionist with quiet gratitude.  

 “Merry Christmas to you.  So you get to work today?” I asked rhetorically.  

 “Yes,” she responded.  “But you know, it’s so peaceful that I really don’t mind being here.” 

I walked down the hall to the elevators. In all my visits here, why had I never taken the stairs? Perhaps, even those few moments were too precious to wait. Push the up button. Wait for the floors to open. Second floor, please. Exit, then turn left and cross in front of the nurses' station.

On the day I was born, my great aunt, Alta Adamson Nash, celebrated her 59th birthday. I was her “birthday girl.” As a child, I was aware of this special bond and remember cradling the handmade doll, a birthday gift she had sent me, on a visit to the doctor. I was nervous and fearful that day yet comforted by the presence of love clothed in satin.

Aunt Alta was born just after the turn of the century, on February 9, 1901, her family being the dearest possession she ever had. As the second oldest of 11 children, her role as sister was often blurred as she cared lovingly for her younger siblings. They would, in turn, revere and honor her name throughout her life.

She married but 16 years would pass before a child of her own would be placed in her arms through the miracle of adoption. She loved and cared for him all the more for the anguish of heart she had borne waiting for him to come. “'Round yon virgin mother and child! Holy infant, so tender and mild.” Her husband, this precious son, and six siblings would precede her in death yet thankfully she was blessed with a caring daughter-in-law, six grandchildren, and many great-grandchildren.

Her compassion, however extended far beyond her immediate family. I was a recipient of that influence as she recognized and celebrated each new stage of my life. She never forgot her “birthday girl” even though sometimes I forgot her.

I quietly entered her room. On this day, the sweet sound of carols was replaced by the reassuring hum of a ventilator. Instead of gingerbread, I smelled the efforts of a clean and sterile environment, to help prolong her life. There was no tree with sparkling lights, but there were many cards with heartfelt messages full of hope and prayer from loved ones. I had not been, nor would I be her only visitor, but it was just the two of us as I approached her bedside that Christmas morning.

“Hello, Aunt Alta.  Merry Christmas,” I whispered.  Her eyes were closed.  She breathed in deeply, a sign that she knew someone was near.  I held her hands, now worn and bent, hands which had once lovingly created for me.

I stroked her forehead and kissed her brow. In her eyes, I saw no recognition only tenderness. She did not know who I was. Yet, that common thread linking our two very different lives was ever-present. Born generations apart, our shared nativity would bind us together for over four decades. But now, it was the roles of great-aunt and niece that were blurred.

Through the oxygen mask, I heard her quiet whisperings. It was difficult to understand what she was saying.  I listened more carefully, straining to hear a familiar word.  

 “Mama, I’m thirsty,” she called out.  

 “I know,” I replied, feeling the weight of responsibility to comfort her.  “I wish there was something that I could give to you.”  Doctor’s orders.  I stroked her hand and felt the tension within her subside.   

 Our time together was spent in silence yet my heart pounded within me.  Words did not come easily.  “What can I say to comfort her?”  But silence seemed to be enough.  The feeling that flowed between us was unhindered in the dearth of words.  

 “Home,” she said at last. “I want to go home.” She spoke of her mother. Of a sister and a brother. The longing for family tugged at her 99-year-old heartstrings.  I sat close beside her and spoke the names of those she so dearly loved. “Eph, Blaine, Mark, Nida  . . .” With each name, I saw her face brighten, as a smile came out of the darkness. “Son of God, love’s pure light.” 

I lingered, yet understood those same earnings. I knew where I now needed to be. I told her I loved her and left one final kiss. As I returned home, I realized that the Gifts of that first Christmas morning are eternal and are meant to be shared frequently with those we hold dear.

In the coming weeks, each of my four children was able to visit our Aunt Alta. On January 28th, 2001, just 12 days before her 100th birthday, she peacefully went home. When her brother, my great-uncle, called to give me the news, he said simply, “Our sister Alta passed away this morning.” And it was true. I was her great niece and her “birthday girl,” but I was also and will always be, her sister.

Love transcends age, class, or status.  In fact, love knows no bounds. The song lingers in my heart, the words that speak the whisperings within. “Sleep in heavenly peace,” my sister Alta. “Sleep, in heavenly peace.”