Every day, I am becoming more and more like the woman from whom I’ve received my name.
I find myself interested in the same things as she: singing, helping others, and caring about the little things in life. Although I never had the privilege of experiencing her myself, the stories told of her life are nothing to pass by.
Within the last couple days of her life, Lillian Joyce Brown, often referred to as Joyce, went to a book signing of a former colleague just so she could get her daughter, who was in nursing school at the time, a book signed by a doctor. She sang her chicken song for the whole library, sending waves of laughter and excitement throughout the crowd. She was an entertainer, always singing for people, even when she knew it wasn’t the most appropriate time to do so.
When she lived in the not-so-luxury city of Kalamazoo, she would take in people who were alone during the holidays, giving the small amount of material things she had to others. As a nurse, she learned how to care for a person, teaching her what it meant to be a great mother to her son and three daughters. Joyce gave everything she had to her children, showing exactly what it means to be a loving parent; I hope someday that I will be able to care for children as much as Joyce did.
She was a writer, and I’m told all the time that I am similar to her in this way. Not only have I inherited her love for writing and music, but I have also been inheriting the things she once called hers for as long as I can remember. I have been given her sewing kit, a sewing machine of hers, and, my personal favorite, her locket.
This locket holds a picture of all her daughters: my Mema, Aunt Jan, and Aunt Barbie, the person who has so willingly assisted me in writing this.
There is some part of me that believes I also inherited part of her soul. The soul of a woman who dedicated her life to making sure others were taken care of and loved, even if it meant putting them before herself; it would be a great honor to carry that part of her throughout my life. I am tied to her by not only blood and name but also in how I carry myself.
As I sit here, writing about a woman who deserves nothing less, I think about what it means to inherit someone’s name: I am tied to Lillian in a way that no one else is. When my family thinks of me, they will associate me with a woman who they hold so highly in their hearts. Having the ability to live up to that standard shows how much I am also loved.
So, for Lillian Joyce, thank you for being a model of who I should become; thank you for letting me share your name and glory.
