My husband is one of eight kids. That’s a fair amount of brothers- and sisters-in-law to get to know and get used to. Now add to that the fact that my husband’s mom is one of nine kids and you can understand that in this family, there are relatives galore.

The sheer volume of family members was a wee bit intimidating to a newly-engaged 19-year-old who grew up in a small family. That’d be me. I have a fairly clear memory of teenaged me, madly in love with Chad and glad to be meeting his extended family, yet trying to remain invisible in the corner of a very crowded and loud room, wondering how in the world I would ever, ever remember the names of all his cousins. It was a good day when I could actually recite his brothers’ and sisters’ names in chronological order. Heck, there were more people at his family’s gatherings than there were in my entire church!

But for that shy and nervous girl, wondering if she would survive immersion into this boisterous crowd, there was a lifeline. There was a relative who made me feel accepted in a so-glad-you’re-here kind of way, who wasn’t content to let me hide in the corner but rather made sure that everyone knew my name too, who always made sure I had a place to sit and someone to chat with.

That was Aunt Hazel.

There was never any need for pretense with Aunt Hazel. You didn’t have to impress her. You didn’t have to be overly polite and say “I’m fine, thanks” when you really could go for a glass of water. And you didn’t have to worry about whether you knew all the right things to say. She knew just how to pull me, the consummate introvert, into a conversation, and how to make me feel right at home in a situation that would normally have me feeling quite out of my element. She liked to tell stories (and I admit I’ve always enjoyed hearing about Chad’s childhood trouble-making adventures), she laughed easily, and there wasn’t a single person around her who doubted that she loved them.

Aunt Hazel passed away last Thursday, far too young, far too soon. C. summed things up as we were leaving the funeral to make our 5-hour trip home yesterday: “I just can’t imagine this family without Aunt Hazel.” Although he’s only 8 and hadn’t had the opportunity to get to know Aunt Hazel well, he knew — along with the rest of us — that with Hazel gone, we are left with an aching hole in our hearts. In many ways, she was, to me, the anchor of family get-togethers. And she will be — and already is — deeply missed.

We are so thankful to know that Aunt Hazel was a child of God. (If you’d like to know more about what that means, please click here.) She had given her life to the Lord, trusted Him for her life and eternity, and so we know that now she’s with Him. There is a true and meaningful joy in that knowledge. I’ve learned in the years since my father died that as time passes, we don’t necessarily miss our loved ones any less, but we’re gradually able to feel more of that joy and less of the pain that at first is so raw.

Tonight as I sit here in my quiet house, I remember that wonderful, kind, loving, laughing, welcoming woman, and I miss her already. We love you, Aunt Hazel.