Aurora Butler Lockwood.
By George Ide Butler
It becomes my painful duty to announce, to the old friends in the cause especially, the death, at Bowling Green, Fla., Jan. 17, 1902, of this my very dear sister according to the flesh. She had been home from the general meeting at Nashville, Tenn., only one and a half days when the forces of life were fully spent, and she peacefully closed her eyes in death. She had not been strong since last summer, when she had such a serious illness that it gave us all much anxiety. From this she regained but a small portion of the strength she had before. Still she was able to be about for several months. When it became my duty to attend that meeting, I thought, It will be well for her to go, and meet many old friends, especially Sister White, in whose family Aurora had lived in former years. Indeed, Sister White had written her to come, for she wished to see her. She greatly enjoyed the meeting. Her face beamed with cheerfulness and inward peace, and as I met her from time to time (as I was buried under business matters), and asked of her health and happiness, she said she was very happy, and felt even better than before she came. She continued to feel thus two days after the meeting. In coming home, the swinging motion of the train going rapidly around curves created a nausea, and from that time she suffered much, so that we greatly feared she would never reach home alive. I had to carry her in my arms out of the coach at Jacksonville, as she was too weak to walk. But she seemed soon after to improve a little, and we reached home with her still alive, but a great sufferer. The next day at evening she expired, like the last flickerings of the burned-out candle,—her life forces completely spent. Yesterday we laid her to rest under the oak trees, beside her friend of a lifetime, my dear companion, to await the call of the Life-giver. With her went the last shred of a home on earth for me. I am now at this writing alone in our humble residence, where we have been associated so long. There was something a little peculiar about the passing away of these two friends and sisters. It was almost exactly nine weeks from the very hour when my wife died, till the death process began with my sister. They were carried to the grave, funeral services held over them, and buried at precisely the same hour, just nine weeks apart. Will not they come forth at the same moment? My sister was born in Waterbury, Vt., Nov. 23, 1827; was old enough to be a strong believer in the great '44 message; began to keep the Sabbath about 1850; was married to Ransom G. Lockwood, my wife's own brother, when about twenty-four years of age. By a terrible accident about three years later, his leg was cut off just below the knee, and he was otherwise lacerated, by a circular wood saw, which flew out of its place. He was an invalid for years, and his wife nursed him, cared for him, and bore in many ways a double burden through life. Moving West, they finally settled in Battle Creek, Mich., where the publishing office had been recently established. She was head of the folding department for a long term of years, with from ten to forty people under her direction, a position requiring much care and some executive ability. She held this position till she became almost too old properly to bear its burdens. They moved to California later, assisting Sister White in caring for her home at Healdsburg in her absence, living also at the Health Retreat at St. Helena. Becoming too old for care-taking, they finally settled on a small place in the country, where her husband died four years ago last summer. I immediately wrote my dear sister an earnest invitation to come and live with me as long as life should last. She came at once, and was a great assistance in helping me to care for my poor companion till her death. Her hope—the most precious thing in the world to her—was bright and clear to the last. When the last crisis began about 3 P. M., she had great difficulty in breathing; for the disease at last seemed to assume the form of pneumonia. She would barely speak in an audible whisper. She murmured, “My life record has been imperfect, but the blood of Christ—the blood of Christ!” I asked her, “Sister, is your faith and trust in God strong?” She replied, very quickly, “O, yes,” in a way that showed she had no fears of the hereafter. She soon sank into a comatose state, breathing with difficulty till the end came peacefully, without pain. For months before, since her sickness in the summer, she would say quietly, from time to time, “I shall not live long.” Her small sum of means left was all given to the cause she loved. And so she sleeps in glorious hope.