Grace in an old photo

 I’m downsizing again. Although we took on this task before moving into the retirement center, we stored some boxes in our son’s garage, stuff I planned on going through later. Well, that’s what I’m attempting to do now. Last week we brought over to our apartment several boxes labeled “memory stuff.” That’s dangerous.

One box proved to be full of letters and old photos from my mother’s side of the family. It had been entrusted to me at some point in the past, and I had set it aside. Now was the time. I sat on the floor and began digging and sorting stuff into piles on the carpet.

Some of it was helpful information, some mildly interesting, and some destined for the recycling bin. I loved the photos of my grandparents, my mom, and all the aunts, uncles, and cousins when they were young.

Among all the musty black-and-white photos and crinkled letters, I discovered a few treasures.

I found a photo of a lovely young woman. When I turned it over and read the name on the back, I gasped. Nancy Jane Nichols. I had never seen a photo of my Aunt Nancy. I had never even met her. And I am her namesake.

My mom, Barbara Nichols, was raised with six siblings—four sisters and two brothers. Mom was the third-born, and Nancy followed her two years later. I understand that Barb and Nancy were especially close as kids and young women.

When Aunt Nancy was in her early 20s, she began behaving in ways that alarmed her family. She alternated between deep depression and erratic hyper-activity. She became delusional and had difficulty speaking. Happening to such a kind and friendly person, this terrified her loved ones.  As it went on for some time, her parents began taking her to different doctors. Finally, a psychiatrist diagnosed schizophrenia, a little understood condition at the time.

According to the American Psychiatric Association, “Schizophrenia is a chronic brain disorder that affects less than one percent of the US population. When schizophrenia is active, symptoms can include delusions, hallucinations, disorganized speech, trouble with thinking and lack of motivation.” Although there is still no known cure for schizophrenia, ongoing research has found humane ways to treat the symptoms and to care for the person.

But back when Aunt Nancy was diagnosed, institutionalization was standard practice. So, with broken hearts, my grandparents committed their daughter to a mental hospital. She lived there for the rest of her life. The family apparently stopped talking about her as they tried to deal with their loss and move forward. It became the Family Secret.

Schizophrenia is inherited, and a generation later two of my cousins developed it in their early 20s. My cousin Eileen was also institutionalized. My cousin John committed suicide.

My mom was devastated by what was happening to Nancy, and the grief followed her the rest of her life. As best I can calculate, Mom was a newly married woman at the time. Two years following her marriage, my parents welcomed their first born—me—and they named me Nancy Jane.

As I was growing up, my mom never talked about Aunt Nancy. And of course I never met her. When I got old enough to be curious about my name, I was told I was named after an aunt who was now “gone.” Even as a child I sensed Mom didn’t want to talk about it, so I left it alone. It’s only been since my mom’s death that I’ve been able to piece together a few details that saddened me. Sad for my aunt, but even sadder for my mother whose heart never healed.

And so my excitement at finding the photo of Nancy Jane Nichols, and discovering her to be such a beautiful young woman. I imagine I see her character in the photo—a kind, loving person I’d want to have as a friend, if that were possible. Maybe the photo shows who she really is, not the person the disease turned her into. I feel privileged to be named after her.

My parents apparently didn’t pay too much attention to the meaning of names. They were not Christians at the time and certain words might not have carried much significance. But both Nancy and Jane are derivatives of the work grace. I’ll accept that. A double portion of grace. God’s grace child. That’s something to hold onto, cherish, and live into with the Spirit’s help.

My mom died at the relatively young age of 57 after years of degenerative rheumatoid arthritis. Her limbs had become twisted and she could no longer walk. She kept her quiet and cheerful spirit to the end, but it hurt to see her suffering.

I imagine the sisters, Nancy Jane and Barbara Mae, together now, healed, whole, and flourishing. They have an eternity to make up for time they lost here on earth.

Grace.