Ain’t God Alright?: Remembering my Uncle Eddie. Part 3: When Heaven Called

There’s no such thing as “enough time” when love runs that deep. When Uncle Eddie took his final breath, heaven didn’t just gain a soul — it gained a storyteller, a bridge-builder, and the man who never stopped believing in miracles. In this final part, I sit with grief, signs, and gratitude — and listen for the whisper that still reminds me: “Ain’t God alright?”

 

He was with me on the phone the day I walked back into work after six months of medical leave. I had left that job broken. That day in May, the diabolical harassment from my supervisors had pushed me to the limit. I ended up in my doctor’s office having a full-fledged panic attack which ultimately led to what my mom called a mental breakthrough. Yet as I filled my prescription that had been prescribed by a psychiatrist, I identified it as what anyone else would have called a breakdown. I was inconsolable. I know he couldn’t understand a word that I said—but he listened, waited, and eventually prayed. Later that month he and Auntie Martha drove down for Joshua’s graduation.

On Election Day, November 2012—the morning of President Obama’s second win—I went back. And as I walked through those doors, after months of battling to reclaim my mind, after months of wondering if I had the strength to return, he was there on the phone. Holding space. His voice, steady as ever, carried a peace that allowed my own spirit to experience a peace that surpassed all understanding. And with that signature mix of faith and knowing, he simply said, “Nikki Poo, Ain’t God alright…?”

He was also on the phone with me the afternoon I closed my office door at that job for the last time in 2019 heading to turn in my ID and leaving on my own terms, on my way to a new job. I swear my vision board manifested that for me. As I left with tears of relief and gratitude streaming down my face and tingles of the feeling of freedom electrifying my body… once I finished testifying and praising God, he said… “Nikki Poo, Ain’t God alright?”

I thought I had more time. March had already taken so much—my best friend Ruth-E in 1997. Walking in on Jermaine and Stephanie followed by my grandfather’s death in 1998. The rape in 2001 and Grandma Nonie’s death in 2003. So when Uncle Eddie ended up in CICU toward the end of February, I thought I had a few more days. We were about to get on the road to see him when the call from my cousin Corey came—he had coded again. Earlier that morning, they had revived him after thirty minutes. But this time, with the DNR in place, there was no resuscitation. His heart, the one doctors said wouldn’t last, the one that had carried him through seventy-nine years, finally let go. And he drifted into the arms of eternity.

But even in my grief, I know this was not a coincidence. He didn’t just leave on any day. He left on what would have been Auntie Herlda’s one-hundred-fourteenth birthday. Auntie Herlda (Senhouse) was not related by blood, but she was ours. She was our chosen family. Her birthday had always been a celebration of longevity, of endurance, of a life stretched beyond expectation. She’d passed in November (she assured me that she’d voted by mail) after telling me for about a year that she was tired and ready to go. Even though, up until almost the very end, there would be days I would call and wouldn’t get her because she was at the casino.

But on this birthday, I believe she was waiting and greeted him. The day after his first great-grandbaby was born on the floor above him in the very same hospital. Maybe as she pointed him in the direction of the light they shared all of the secrets of life with our beautiful new angel, baby Denver.

In my imagination, I can see Grandma Mattie, Papa, both of his babies… so many of our family members who had passed, welcoming him. Cousin Bubba (his cousin/best friend who was more like his brother whose body he had to identify after what we believe was a racially motivated murder), Cousin Calvin, Cousin Junior Fergusson. Even Great Grandma Molly, Grandma Mattie’s mom who died when she was just five, and Great-Great-Great Grandma Mandy must’ve been so excited to see him! I definitely cannot forget his church members and so many whose lives he touched… And I know he was relieved. For more than a year amid all of the challenges he would constantly tell me that he was tired. I knew what that meant… yet I gratefully held on to each additional day I had.

Before he closed his eyes for the final time, he had peace with his children. They knew without a shadow of a doubt that he loved them deeply and unconditionally and he knew the same. He and Mom had spoken via FaceTime thanks to my baby boy Jamil. Rock (Sug’s husband and Uncle Eddie’s self-proclaimed bonus son) honored him in the most profound ways… and Auntie Martha loved on him until his final breath. I deeply believe that he did not leave alone. He was received.

Since his passing last month, he has been showing up. A pair of birds visited my balcony before he was even hospitalized. A sign I recognized but didn’t yet understand fully. A rainbow appeared after his funeral as I was driving my Babygirl back to college… Red birds have come again and again. And then, the other day, I saw him. Sitting near my bed like a hologram. Silent. Steady. Just being. Holding space for me the way he always did.

I have wept and wailed. I have cried harder than I ever imagined my body could withstand. I thought if I cried hard enough, I could release the pain. But it’s still here. And he’s not. At least, not in the way I want him to be. And then, as if grief weren’t already unbearable, the world adds insult to injury—telling me that his loss only qualifies me for one day of bereavement. One day. As if I can package this grief into twenty-four hours. As if my world hasn’t been flipped upside down, and inside out. As if the man who shaped my life should only be mourned for a moment. But my grief is not a transaction… it’s not even measurable. My grief in this moment is the weight of love with nowhere to go.

I really don’t know how to fit this love into a world that wants me to move on. But what I do know is this: Uncle Eddie didn’t just teach me how to hold on. He taught me how to trust in the presence of love, even when I can’t see it. So I will sit in the silence. I will listen for the echoes of his voice. I will look for him in the red birds, in the rainbows, in the quiet spaces between tears. And maybe, just maybe, if I sit still long enough… I’ll hear him say it again.

“Nikki Poo, Ain’t God alright?”

And I will know, without a doubt… God is most definitely better than alright!

And for this knowing… I am so grateful!

Uncle Eddie… I love you forever & always,

Nikki Poo

 

Grief, I’ve learned, is love that still needs somewhere to go. And as I listen for his voice in the birds, the rainbows, and the stillness between heartbeats — I remember: love never ends, it just changes form. Ain’t God alright? More than alright. God is faithful, and for this knowing… I am beyond grateful.