Some stories don’t reveal their meaning until much later. This story begins with a phone call and news I wasn’t ready to hear and took years to unfold, eventually setting the stage for a professional turning point I could not have imagined.
The news: my Aunt Christine, youngest sister to my mother (and my beloved godmother), was in late stages of ovarian cancer. The doctors said that there was nothing more she could do to fight it.
She was 61 years old.
Christine wasn’t just my godmother—she was the big-sister spirit of my childhood. Just thirteen years older, she was still in high school when I toddled around my grandparents’ house, already idolizing her. Christine was an athletic, lively soul who did cartwheels through my grandparents’ tiny living room, my Grandpa Jack yelling, “Not in the house!!” as she twirled her way down the hallway and into her bedroom.
I adored her.
Christine, who came of age in the late 1960s, never lost her “hippie” spirit. Her marriage was certainly unconventional—she and her husband took off to the Keweenaw Peninsula of northern Michigan, where they lived in a wood stove-heated cabin and made pottery for a living. When her marriage ended a few years later, she moved west and settled in Utah at the base of the Wasatch mountains. Long before Robert Redford’s Sundance resort made it a popular tourist destination, Park City was home to my aunt and she created her version of “family”—lifelong friends who remained true to her and took care of her until her last breath. She traveled with those friends, climbing Mount Kilimanjaro, camping for three months on a Mexican beach, breaking her nose while white-water rafting, working one summer on a dude ranch.
She lived.
When the news came to us here at home in Michigan that Christine’s time was limited it was already too late for me to hop on a plane and visit. I had waited too long, a decision that I regret to this day. So, I did the next best thing I could think of: I decided to write her a love letter, in book form.
At the time, I was in the thick of it all—raising young kids, managing a small business, living life at a gallop. Thankfully, with the support of my hubby, I cleared my calendar for the next two days and pulled together all the photos I could find of Christine and our life together. There weren’t a ton to work with, but there was enough to tell a story.
And I told that story—of what Christine meant to me and how she had influenced my life. I poured those words and photos into a Shutterfly book—a simple thing, really, but imbued with memory and love—and sent it overnight to Utah.
Thankfully, Christine was still strong enough to read the book; she even sent me a voicemail message to tell me how much she loved it.
Shortly after my book arrived on Christine’s doorstep, my mom and the third member of their sisterly trio, Judy, traveled out west to say their goodbyes to Christine. The day after they arrived, my phone rang early in the morning. It was my mom. I looked at the clock. It was 6AM Utah time. With a lump in my throat and dread in my heart, I answered.
“Mom?”
“Jenni?” my mom’s hushed voice answered back.
I waited for the news that Christine had passed. Except that she hadn’t. My mom was calling with different news.
“Mom, why are you whispering?” I asked. “Because it’s 6 AM and I don’t want to wake anybody up . . . or have them hear me,” she replied.
“That book that you made Christine– she can’t stop talking about it. She loves it,” my mom reported. I knew this, of course, because of Christine’s voicemail.
Then, my mom took a deep breath and revealed the reason for her call: “Jenni, she wants to be buried with the book. Are you ok with that?”
It took my breath away. Would I be ok with that? My throat tightened, tears blurring my eyesight.
“Yes,” I answered. I would be honored. Please tell her yes.
****
I am now the same age Christine was when she crossed over. I’ve carried that story with me for 13 years, treasuring it—gently lifting it from the keepsake box of my mind to reflect on and cherish, remembering a remarkable woman who was an artist, loyal friend, world traveler, and kick-ass godmother.
There was never a reason to tell this story—until now.
What stays with me most is this: I had no idea how much that book would mean to her. I simply wanted to say what she meant to me before it was too late. But that small act—gathering memories and putting them into words—became something far more powerful. So powerful, in fact, that she asked to be buried with it.
That moment showed me what a written story can carry: love, memory, connection. And it quietly sparked the work I do today—guiding others to write the stories only they can tell.
If you’ve ever felt the tug to capture your memories, honor your milestones, or simply make sense of where you’ve been—this path is open to you, too.
I’d be honored to walk it with you.
Learn more about Life Story Coaching here.
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