June 12, 1956 - March 25, 2014

Last Tuesday around noon I received a text from my mom:  Call pls.  Realizing it was just 7am in Pennsylvania, I called her immediately.  She was on her way to my aunt Robin's house (her sister).

My aunt Robin passed away suddenly.

The entire community is shocked and grieving her death, even while we try to celebrate the fact that she is with Jesus.

While I long(ed) to be with my family during this week, I have peace, knowing that God has plans for me here in France.  I was also reminded of the joy that comes from having other people so engrained in our lives and ministry here; praise God that we do not carry our burdens alone!  As a way of sharing my own thoughts, memories, and grief with my cousins, I wrote what you'll find below.  I later learned that it was shared at the funeral.

We knew that living in France, in a different culture, with a different language, far from our families would require sacrifice.  It’s easy to know in your mind that there will be sacrifice; it’s another thing to experience it.

Hearing the shocking news that aunt Robin died makes the sacrifice of living far away tangible.  As I celebrate her life and mourn her passing from this life to the next, I am keenly aware of the great physical distance between me and those I love – and those who love aunt Robin.

My friends here express their sympathies and ask, “Were you close with your aunt?”

Was I close with my aunt?

How do I express (in French, nonetheless!) the closeness of our family?  How do I explain the birthday parties, holidays, picnics, game days, meals (Kings, anyone?), trips to Presque Isle, bon fires…?  I can’t.  Only people who know us – as an entire family – can understand our relationship.  

As I read her obituary, the phrase “neighborhood babysitter” made me smile.  It reminded me that, when I was little, I wished that my mom would work, rather than stay home with us kids, so that aunt Robin could be our babysitter, too.  

It didn’t take her death to make me think of her (though it has certainly evoked more memories).  Last week I was washing strawberries.  For 22 years of my life I didn’t like strawberries – just like aunt Robin.  As my mouth watered, waiting to eat the first strawberries of the season, I thought, “I’m glad I like strawberries now; its too bad aunt Robin still doesn’t like them.”  Such a random thought. 

Or did you know that we’ve brought her fruit pizza and sugar cookies to France?  Even the French are making her cookies!  (Although they don’t like nearly as much icing as aunt Robin J) 

I’m realizing, as I reflect on her life and mourn her death, seemingly alone in this foreign land, that aunt Robin was so engrained in our family that I might have taken our relationship for granted.  She wasn’t someone that I saw regularly or had deep heart-to-hearts with, but I always knew where to find her, and she was always eager to give and receive a hug.   I think she did a good job of living in the moment. 

Not only am I mourning her death, but I’m also grieving the fact that I can’t be with others who knew and loved aunt Robin.  I’m well aware of the fact that I am the only family member unable to be present – likely from both the Leslie and McKim sides of the family - but know that as a result of me being “alone” and far from you all, aunt Robin’s life is being made known to others – even in France.

This picture was probably taken in May 1993 of the Leslie ladies