“I am so proud of you.”
I was standing in the checkout line at Sprouts yesterday when suddenly I knew you were there. I had gathered in my hands a liter bottle of water and my favorite essential oil, ordinary comforts, the balms I hoped would soothe my grief-sick soul for my journey through the valley of the shadow of death in the coming hours. As I stood in line, I glanced over at the greeting card display, and that’s when I saw you. Your wink from heaven. Your unmistakable voice of love echoing in my ear. Emblazoned on one of the cards were the words I will always remember hearing you say to me, “I am so proud of you.”
Autura, I don’t think you ever missed an opportunity to tell me how proud you were of me when we saw each other, when we talked on the phone. I must admit I wasn’t always sure I deserved those words. Yet, above the feelings of inadequacy, above the ways I had disappointed myself, above the doubts and fears, your voice always rang clear and true and strong…“I am so proud of you.”
You never missed an opportunity to tell me. You never let the moment pass by without setting the record straight that I was known and seen and loved by you. In the last seventeen days, I asked myself one time, ten times, a thousand times, “Did I ever tell you how proud I was of you?” I’m sure I must have. I know the love and admiration we shared with each hug and smile and conversation over the past two decades. But, in case my words failed to communicate clearly, it’s time for me to set the record straight.
Autura, I am so proud of you.
Over the past two weeks, I’ve discovered I wasn’t the only person that you told often how proud you were of them. I already knew that, and, somehow, it makes my memories of those words all the more sweet. I suppose pride, like love, only multiplies when it's shared. Still, the great cloud of witnesses who have been assembled together by this unimaginable tragedy, who have whispered through tears, “She would always tell me that she was proud of me,” Autura, their sheer number takes my breath away. How did you have time to pour wisdom and encouragement into so many of us, without ever making one of us feel like you were rushing to the next appointment, the next task, the next person? How did your heart expand so wide to love so many, so well? How did you add hours to the day so that, even in your tireless ministry, you didn’t neglect your family but nurtured and supported them from a deep well of faith, hope, and love?
Autura, I am so proud of you.
What does one do when a Twitter notification announces the murder of a friend? I wasn’t prepared for those moments when the words that flashed across my screen would break my heart. I didn’t sign up for this pain, for this nightmare. Yet, the photographs the media used in their breaking news updates reminded me what I did sign up for. When you asked me to journey with you as you humbly offered yourself as an episcopal candidate in the UMC, there was no other answer for me but, “Yes!” because I believed in you, and I believed in the power of the Holy Spirit living within you. Who knew that the portraits we commissioned then to share the story of the ministry and vision God had planted in your heart would instead be the photographs forever connected to your death? Early in working on your campaign together, I wrote you a letter sharing I believed God had called you forth to be a leader of His people, like Esther, for such a time as this. In a season of divisiveness and fear, of anxiety and hopelessness, you spoke with a calm, clear voice that called us to keep moving forward into God’s future unafraid. You reminded us to attend to the hard work but the gospel work of dismantling racism, combating poverty, and honoring our LGBTQ+ siblings in the body of Christ by fully including them in the life of the church. And, in this work, you led by example. Your authenticity and integrity and willingness to question unjust systems were values God’s people deeply craved for in their leaders, their shepherds for such a time as this. And I’m so angry that I have to live in such a time as this without your mentorship and guidance now. I deeply grieve that the United Methodist Church will not be blessed with an opportunity to elect you Bishop Rev. Dr. Autura Eason-Williams. Yet, what will not come to be cannot undo what was always true. You, my dear friend, were a mighty vessel for the indwelling of the Holy Spirit and Her power. You held the treasure of God’s glory in your clay jar, always pointing others, not to yourself, but to the light of Jesus Christ, as you let the grace revealed in his life, death, and resurrection shine through your life.
Autura, I am so proud of you.
So many times at your funeral yesterday, we reminded one another that your legacy of love and faith in Jesus lives on, through each of us who shared in your life, but most strongly and so clearly in your children. I hear your beautiful laugh and see your bright smile in Gwendolyn, the words of her prayer yesterday embodying the deep faith you both share. I discover your passion for uncovering the superhero in each of us who can make the world a better place when TJ embraces all things nerdy in the memory of his Wonder Woman of a mother. I receive your gentle spirit in John’s quiet strength. I am convicted and inspired by Ayanna’s advocacy for justice, education, and reform in our city. In her cries for merciful, restorative justice even in the midst of her grief, I hear her mommy’s voice.
Autura, I am so proud of you. In case I didn’t say it enough on this side of heaven, I needed to set the record straight. Thank you for sharing your love and your life with me. I’ll try my best to keep making you proud.
