My Uncle Steve

I want to write about him. Steve was the easiest guy to get along with. It would have felt just weird to call him Uncle Steve because we saw each other all the time, and I think Erskine's are just too lazy for all those extra syllables. Or something. Maybe Ogden branch Erskine's. I mean, I wasn't called Katie, but Kate most of the time. Sometimes it still feels weird to hear "Katie", but it would feel too weird to introduce myself as Kate or to sign my name that way. So yeah, he was just Steve. I would go to Grandpa's house, and sit on the couch and talk to him about games and books and movies. I would admire his book collection. I would enjoy the hum of the house, Grandpa falling asleep with a cup of coffee in his hands, and Tim tinkering away on a car, or fixated on the sports game that happened to be on, or working on fascinating art projects with random mediums.
Grandpa's house. I still have to call it that, even though he's been gone for...wow, 6 years now. I have spent 7 of those years away from home, so it's always strange to come home, in my sporadic few week bursts.
I want to write about Steve, because I keep dreaming about him. I keep dreaming that I'm talking to him, like old times. And then I'm crying because I realize it's not real. I dream that he's proud of me, of what I'm doing. I can see in his eyes that he wants me to know that. I cry so hard in my sleep. I don't know if I actually did in real life. It's not hopeless, it's just such a long wait.
My family isn't all that touchy. The aunts pat the back, and hug. They pray and believe in miracles. And finding out that my uncle became a Christian before cancer seemed to cut his life short. I say seemed, because that's an earthly perspective of course. There is not cutting his life short. He's living forever right now. But I didn't really get to hug him. Maybe I did at Grandpa's funeral. That day was a blur, of course. It was the first day I was really presented with the glaring reality that this body is just a tent. A temporary means of travel and an instrument to make the most important choices with. A mouth to declare the truth and hands and feet to be ready to serve the Lord.
I may offend some people, but hey, they don't have to read this. (Or they can look past the offence if they see that it's not worth the effort and pain of unforgiveness that just causes pain and sickness in the long run.)
I was kind of annoyed with Steve's funeral paper thing. It made it seem like he was a firm, strong in the Lord Christian his whole life, like his whole life was being faithful and passionate about telling people about his faith. And no, that wasn't true. He wrote himself that he search for 50 years, not knowing the Lord was searching for him. He wrote about wasted time and being overwhelmed by the love of Jesus as he knew his life was swiftly coming to an end. But it occured to me, as I wrote that, that maybe he was written about like that, because the few weeks (or however long it was, I'm out of touch with America, remember?) were the most full, exciting, and powerful weeks of his life. And it fulfilled him and everyone around him so much, that everything before just seemed like a foggy memory. I heard about how he was excited to pray for people, whenever there was an opportunity. And I have shared his words with people all over Germany, Austria, Switzerland, and now France, and soon Belgium and Luxembourg will get to hear some of the prayers and thoughts that (my aunt) Ella  painstakingly typed up, because his handwriting was hard to read. I have another wonderful friend that will type it up in French. (because I can mostly translate it into German, almost memorized by now, but since I'm not there anymore, it's not so necessary)
He said he wouldn't want to go back, to be healed, and to go back to way life was before. He asked God to give him strength, to help him to use the time he had.
He loved his dogs, they were his children. He sometimes ate canned soup while he fed his dogs chicken! ha ha..that's my family. Priorities, all the way. He appreciated old books, and bad puns and science fiction. There were always piles of books around him. When I went into his room, which was mostly packed up, I started picking up books, because it was so natural. Books, being enthralled by a story, being sucked in, and exhaling out the excitement and resolution, sucking for air at the end sometimes. If I ever expressed the vaguest notion of wanting to borrow something, he would already have it in his hands. As soon as anyone had any kind of need, his eyebrows would go up in this, "Hmm, what can I do about it" kind of way. He seriously would give people the shirt off of his back, no problem. He loved his family so much, even though he didn't say it. And the last time I got to talk to him was either in December or early January of the year that he died in March. There was some problem with skype or the phone. I could hear him, but he couldn't hear me. Can you imagine how painful that was? He asked for me a few times, and I was shouting, "Yes, yes, I'm here!" And then he said, well, sorry, I can't hear you. But I'm glad you called. It's good to hear from you." And was gone. That wasn't the last contact. I did write him a letter. Telling him I loved him. It was read to him by one of the aunts. It's so good that I had the chance to say what I wanted to say. I do miss him. And if airfare wasn't so expensive, I could go into that strange empty house that (my uncle) Tim has made so nice. It doesn't have the comfortable clutter it used to, the coffee table filled with coffee cups and magazines and books and VHS's and glasses and mail. But there are still dogs, and he is still there, and the memories are still there. They breathe new life into us, and inspire us to love the way Grandpa and Steve loved, to give so cheerfully the way they did, and to be strong, and hold onto the promise, whether you have lived that promise for decades, or are in need for strong arms to catch you right now, because our tomorrows are not promised.