Somerset: That Girl, and Her Big, Fat, Meaty Heart

My late great-aunt, Anne Jacoby, was one of the finest women I have ever known. She was not one to care about material things, but she respected them enough to take care of what had been freely given her. Her father had left her, his only surviving child, a large sum of money, and a grand home on the coast near Bath.

I always thought it contradictory how she was so very born to be wealthy, yet cared nothing for it al all. Her very appearance and good breeding … her elegant posture, porcelain skin, and vast education … had prepared her for limitless opportunities. Yet, she found herself to be lacking in the one thing she desired most: a loving husband and children of her own.

Before we moved to London, my parents sent me to live with her to prepare me for future studies and an advantageous marriage. I had no desire to attend university, at the time, but I did hope to have a family of my own someday. I deduced learning from my aunt would at least give me something to entertain myself with, and talk about with others, as I carried out my duties as a wife and mother in the not so distant future.

Aunt Anne found much fulfillment in sharing her love of knowledge with others like me. Whatever I lacked in earthly ambition, she made up for in passionate tales and facts. I spent my time with her in deep and devoted study. I dare say I read more books than any other girl in all of London.

Aunt Anne would walk into our vast library dressed in nothing but her luxurious dressing gown and slippers, and we would spend all day planning what pages we would methodically read next. She was the first woman I had ever met that did not get up in the morning to dress. Instead, she would sleep late, wear her braids from the night before and spend her day in her jim-jams. She said getting beautified was a waste of time when so many important people and places were waiting for us in the pages of her library.

She schooled me in art, philosophy, geography, theology, horticulture, history and so much more. My time living with her still remains one of the happiest seasons of my life. I am secretly so much like her. I long for days when I can stay in bed, sit and read, write and sip tea. Days in London as a spinster do not currently afford me that leisure. Perhaps it’s why I adores my summers in the country. When I am here, I can relax and remind myself, married or not, I have the right to nurture my own soul.

This particular summer she has been on my mind quite a bit. Most of you are aware of my engagement that ended several years ago. It has taken me far longer than expected to recover from saying goodbye to David. He left me for his tenure in India, and while I waited and waited for his return, it was never to be. He met another woman there whom he loved far greater than me. It was the kind of heartbreak one cannot fully comprehend until one has experienced it for oneself.

My aunt had experienced such heartbreak, although her smile made it easy to forget. She was once engaged to Edward, the son of a Duke, but he confessed to her, cruelly on the lsat day of their honeymoon of all days, he never loved her. His affection had all been an act to make his family happy. Devastated, of course, she returned home to her father, and he, furious with Edward, had their marriage annulled immediately. The whole experience had so utterly broken her, and she chose to live the rest of her life alone in her big house with her glorious books. I do not think she felt she would or could ever feel that way about another man. Based on the things she said to me, however, she held on to a glimmer of hope maybe, someday, she would find happiness again.

Her life was not completely empty. She used her wealth to take care of the less fortunate, and spent a great deal of time traveling to impoverished areas, lending a hand where needed. She created jobs for farmers by expanding her father’s industry. But, I know her life would have been far more fulfilling for her with a husband and children of her own. She was more suited for the quiet home life. She toughed it out in a man’s world, and did well, but she secretly hated every minute of it.

I admit, for years I was haunted by the longing in her eyes, and the way she would wrap her arms around herself as if she were in some supernatural realm of grace I did not understand.

I pulled my old journal from the bookshelf today, finding a set of letters she and I had exchanged the year after my departure. I did not understand the true meaning of her words until now. They reminded me of the way she used to hold herself together. After David ended things with me, it felt as though someone had punched a hole straight through my chest. I walked around with my arms clutched about me tightly for months. It felt as though I would fall into a million pieces if I did not, quite literally, hold myself together.

In one of the letters I asked my aunt how she survived her own heartbreak. She replied, “I did not survive it, my dear. Whoever that girl was died with him on that train to Venice, although it took months to realize it as the pain sunk deeper and deeper into my reality. The only way to survive such a loss is to die a death of sorts. I, personally, found no other way. I prayed for God to take away the pain. He did not. I prayed each night to die in my sleep, yet awoke surprised each morning to the sound of my heart throbbing in my aching head. I am simply somebody else now. I spend my days becoming acquainted with the new me. The things the old me loved are gone. My dream was to marry Edward. It was the only dream I had and every other facet of my life was no longer enjoyable without him in it. My father encouraged me to find a new dream or adventure. But, how could I? I’m afraid my heart is wired to love all or none at all. I have seen cancers be more merciful than the grief that came knocking on my door. If another man had come along, I would’ve been open to it after a number of years, but it never happened. Each time I met a man of godly character, he was promised to another.

I have lived my days as a widow. It is odd to realize one has become a widow, for all intents and purposes. I may not be a widow, but I feel like one. I found such an odd contentment in my boring life of solitude, and a gratitude for the home God had so graciously provided me through my earthly father. I depend greatly on the comfort of my bed, my home, good food, my maid, my library and the unwavering love of my God to carry me with joy from one day to the next. I have freedom to spend my days reading and writing. I have ample opportunity to encourage those around me who are suffering, and I enjoy mission work. Somehow, all of that has become enough for the new me. I am not happy, but I am happy enough.

I suppose God could have raised the old, girlish me from the grave if He wanted to, but He has, so far, shown no interest in it. I think He has become proud of the older, wiser me I became as a result of my pain. I know His heart broke with mine. He held me, cried with me. I believe if He could’ve saved me from that pain He would have. In my case, a person made a choice that effected me greatly. And, if there’s one thing I know about God, He is the ultimate gentleman. He’s not going to force a man to love me if he doesn’t want to love me.

I am not sure I would have wanted to resurrect the old, naive me on any count. That girl, and her big, fat, meaty heart, did kill me, after all. Oh, but who are we if we are not all heart?

I encourage you, stay open to the notions of love, darling. We may never know why some people get to be happy while others do not. The fairness of it all will never be clear on this side of Heaven. But, we also never know when life will surprise us, and we will be the ones who get to be happy.

In the meantime, take care of God’s widows and orphans, the less fortunate. There will always be someone out there who has it worse than you. Spend your days dying to your right to lie down and drown in your sorrows, and endeavor to allow the love of Christ to be known in the Earth in tangible form through your gentle hands.”

Aunt Anne passed two years ago, but she left my life changed forever. She was out delivering food with a British party to Baroda, an area severely stricken with famine. I remember she and I had read about Baroda and areas like Bengal. The harvests had failed, and one year’s food crop failure had taken the lives of an estimated ten million souls a hundred years or so ago. Such famine was common in those areas, and she was passionate about finding a solution. I encouraged her to simply send them money, but she wanted to experience the depravity first hand and love on suffering children. She contracted a disease while there, and died shortly upon returning home. In her last letter to me, she shared she had the privilege of saving thirty-seven families in Baroda from starvation by having her staff create an irrigation system for them before she left. All those agricultural books she and I had read together had proved fruitful.

She was a living example of how someone can survive the impossible, and yet go on to live a life that enriches the lives of those around her. She had every right to lay down and die young, to feel sorry for herself because her most important dream had not come true. Instead, she chose to live her life poured out to others, inspiring women like me towards greatness.

When I was young, I never knew how much her living example would stand as a standard by which I would conduct myself as I waited for my own happiness to bloom. The path of joy she paved for me has proven priceless. I did not choose for my heart to be shattered by David, nor to be a spinster, but I am not a victim of my circumstances … because I choose joy. I choose love and sacrifice. I choose my Jesus and His ways. I hope you will, as well, if you find yourself in bleak circumstances.