My Sister, Annette

I've been typing up all of Annette's letters that she sent home from her mission in Brazil.  It has been quite a journey for me and just typing her words and thinking about her have brought back so many memories and lots of tears.  I came home and started going through papers and found these thoughts written on paper right after her funeral.  I had completely forgotten this.

Written the day after her funeral:

It all seemed unfair, three little children and a husband left alone.  As I sat in the chapel, the large arching roof seemed too heavy for the wooden beams which pressed against it holding it high above the quiet, bowed heads.  Perhaps it was really my heart that was heavy.  The flowers and the casket seemed unreal.  I kept hearing the lilting laughter of Annette, seeing the flippant nod, the brisk and very fast walk.  I would be taking two steps for everyone of hers, often having to skip just to keep up.

I was suddenly not there but sitting at the piano in our front room, playing for Annette while she sang.  Or playing a stupid game that we made up called 'Spoons'.  We would both be playing the piano and if one of us made a mistake we had to give the other one a spoon.  The first person to run out of spoons was the loser.  Music was the greatest interest that we shared.  Saturday mornings we would clean the house to Mario Lanza singing "Song of India".  Music, it was a part of her.  Her interests had also turned to classical music.

Annette was always deeply caring and understanding.  She was a shoulder for me to cry on as I wandered through my adolescent years.  Our love of music was a strengthening bond between two sisters.

Music.  It was a part of her.  Now music was playing there in the front of the chapel.  This couldn't be her funeral.  She should be up there singing.  But here we sat, feeling this terrible sense of loss.  I could hear her voice as the sunlight filtered through the large windows and I thought how she had loved to sing.  I could hear her voice again and tears filled my eyes.  Another chapel long ago heard her voice as I played for her and she sang songs of faith.  Everyone who heard her loved to feel the spirit of her singing.

Often Annette would put on La Boheme or Aida.  She would sing along with the soprano and get every nuance of feeling.  We spent many hours listening to her classical music but we also talked of bigger things; love, the gospel, and the future.  Our upbringing in the church made us think about these things more seriously.

My mind wouldn't stop hopping around and suddenly she was coming home from her mission in Brazil to a waiting fiancé, Allan.  Then a temple marriage and a family.  I always admired her for filling a mission, something I felt I could never do.  So unselfish and kind was her nature, that's what it took for missionary work.  I could imagine her in the streets of Sao Paulo, loving and teaching the people.  What a beautiful sight that must have been.

I next found myself thinking about her cabin and how much loved it there.  She often spoke of how she loved her husband and her three children, Brent, Christine and Jeannine.  They had moved to Fairview and we had moved back to Salt Lake.  During those years I should have called her more often, I should have written her more often - - I should have done a lot of things.

When she became ill, I could never let myself believe it was serious.  Somehow she was too vibrant, too alive to be seriously ill.  Deep down I knew it must be real, but I refused to let myself think about it.  Often she would make a trip to the doctors in Salt Lake and she would stop by and we would play and sing.  She loved seeing how Jeffrey and Annie were growing.  When the visit was over she would always say, "See you later.  I love you!" in her own special carefree way.

I remember the last time Lila Mae and I visited her in the hospital.  She was having trouble breathing and tired easily.  We had visited for a few minutes and then she said she was tired.  We said our 'goodbyes' and as we got to the door we heard her say, "I love you two."  Those word rang in my ears as I got the call the next morning that she had passed away.

The voice of the speaker broke into my reverie.  As I looked up a ray of sunlight shone on the choir seats.  I thought I saw her for a moment.  I know I felt her spirit.  A feeling of calm invaded my being.  Yes, this was the way it should be.  She knew a secret.  We could go on.  The Lord would give us strength.  Her life here was over.  She was on the other side of the veil, back to where we all started, where we all really want to be some day.  Where we all be reunited as a family once again.

I love Annette and I miss her.

 Annette and I taken when I was 17 and she was 22.