Keep the Wit, Give Me Generosity

My Great-Auntie Miriam died in July at the age of 99, and as I read over her will,  I realize again what an exceptional women she was.  

I remember learning the world “steward” as a kid at church.  Literally, a steward is one who manages something: an estate, an airplane, a train.  In the Evangelical world, being a good steward means giving generously, living humbly, loving strong; it means managing well all the blessing God has generously given.  My Auntie Miriam was the ideal steward of time, money, and--most importantly--people. 

I remember hearing a story about how she helped my mom avoid a spanking because of a mis-cut sandwich.  Family legend has it that young Rita wasn’t willing to eat a sandwich cut along the boring horizontal status quo of sandwich cutting.  Instead, ever the rebel, young Rita wanted her sandwich cut diagonally.  My grandparents were Canadian Mennonites and were not often given to such frivolous, childish antics.  As such, young Rita found herself in a world of trouble over her refusal to consume said sandwich and her subsequent crying jag.  Ever the steward of people’s feelings (and, in this case, fannies) Auntie Miriam stepped in and cut the sandwich.  And my did she cut that sandwich.  She cut it in about 16 different pieces of random size and shape.  I'd like to think there were swirls and bunnies, but that might be too much to ask. The story ends with young Rita eating the sandwich, bumm intact and peace restored.

Above all other stories, that story is my Auntie Miriam.  She was patient and kind, gentle and wise, calm and deliberate.  She took a daily “constitutional” walk around her town of Kitchener, Ontario.  She fed the finches every single day.  She read voraciously, went to church every Sunday, and fought for what she believed in.  

She is as generous in death as she was in life.  I am awed by the amount of money she left to 25 different charities.  Even now she is a steward to others.  As I think about what it would be like to be 99, I can only hope that I leave a legacy as striking as her’s.  She taught me more about being a teacher than any class or lecture or TED talk or book or film.  She taught me to cut the metaphorical sandwich in new ways; to walk around my school in order to become invested in it; to care for the people who can’t necessarily care for themselves; to fight with dignity and passion for the causes in which I believe; to give all that I have because at the end of the day, I certainly can’t take it with me.  I keep one of her old sweaters in my classroom to remind me of who she was and how she dealt first in kindness and then anger.   

My Auntie Miriam was one heck of a lady, and she was the ideal steward.