ELIZA ANN ( LeFEVRE) MILLER
- Sterling’s oldest resident, passed away at her home on East Fourth street Wednesday [12/30/1914] evening at 7:30. Old age and a general complication of diseases caused her demise. She was ninety-five years of age on Decembr 19, 1914, and has been a widow since the civil war. A peculiar feature is the fact that she has occupied the same residence on East Fourth street for sixty-seven years. Mrs. Miller has been in poor health for a great many years, her condition gradually growning worse as the years advanced until for the past three years she has been practically helpless and two nurses have been caring for her. Until a few weeks ago, however, she retained full possession of her faculties. Blindness finally came with helplessness and the aged mind wandered back to the years gone by—back to the days of girlhood and to the golden days when, as a young mother, her husband and children were by her side. One son, Rev. Amos Miller, formerly pastor of the Rock Falls Methodist church, preceded her to the Great Beyond. Her only surviving son, Joseph Miller, resides in Alburquerque, N. M. He and other relatives have been notified by telegraph and as soon as arrangements can be completed, the funeral will be announced. An obituary will be published on Saturday. (Burial Riverside Cemetery)
(MEMORIAL) - At last, at last. The aged pilgrim has reached the end of the long journey. Life’s fitful fever o’er, she sleeps well. The little cottage is quiet. No more weary vigils or watchings by day or by night. Could the departimg spirit have spoken, the solemn lines of Sir Edwin Arnold would doubtless have voiced her feelings: Farewell, friends, but not farewell! Where I am, ye too shall dwell. Eliza Ann LeFevre was born in 1819, having passed her 95th year on last Dec. 19. From her old home, Strasburg, Lancaster county, Pa., came several of our pioneer residents, Thomas A. Galt, Alex McCloy, Jacob Echternacht, Werntz, and others, who have figured so largely in the development of our city. She was married in 1839 to Joseph Miller, and in 1847, with her father’s family, they all emigrated to this county. Her father purchased a large tract of land, part of which is now occupied by the city of Sterling.
Her father died in 1872, at the age of 76. Somewhat peculiar, very neat, and some of our older citizens may recall him. Her husband, Joseph Miller, died in 1874, and in the familiar frame cottage the resolute widow contined to reside with her little family. Her brothers, known to most of our people have passed away, one by one, Elias and John here, Amos in Iowa. The residence of Christ Burkholder on Third street was the original property of the father, John Le Fevre, afterwards passing into the hands of Barr Witmer. Two sons were the delight of the fond mother, Amos, the older, born in 1840, was a gallant soldier in the Thirteenth Illinois, studied for the Methodist ministry, and while stationed at Arlington Heights was thrown from his wheel, 1902, receiving injuries from which he never recovered. Frequent visits of his widow and daughters have cheered the heart of the lonely grandmother. Joseph, born in 1843, for years a traveling salesman, owning that handsome mansion that stood at the head of First avenue, has now been residing for a long time at Albuquerque, New Mexico. His son, Leonard, is a graduate of our high school.
Aunty Miller was a housekeeper of the old school. Her home was her world. She sought no other happiness. What delight in her spacious yard with its vines, trees, fruit, flowers, poultry. Here in pleasant weather she received her friends. When gathering infirmities obliqed her to let others take up the burden, she made the needle her solace. What hundreds of pin cushions, quilts, every device issued from those active hands, early and late, and their distribution among her friends afforded her intense enjoyment. Along her task was wrought. Alone the battle fought. Still it is the sad and sure condition of all who linger long after their generation. The playmates of her childhood, the companions of her youth, the associates of middle life, the members of her own circle, every object of her affection, she had seen pass to that mysterious realm of which we know so little and yet of which we think so much. We have reason to believe that, sleeping or waking, Grandma Miller’s thought dwelt on the heavenly home.
But increasing age overcame every ambitious aim, and for over two years she was on the bed of weakness and suffering. A sweet spirit of resignation. The end had come, and that strong will showed an unusual feeling of submission. Time after time at the visits of the writer, she would cheerfully exclaim, “Well, I am still here, the Lord knows best, I must bide his time”. She often repeated “The Lord is my shepherd”, and found much joy in the ministry of Christian friends as they prayed and sung at her bedside. One Sunday morning not long before her departure, a mystic phenomenon startled her watchers. Grandma was dead. The eyes were closed, the features set, the body rigid, the breathing ended. Messages were sent to friends and to the churches. But marvel of marvels, the vital spark had not fled, simply had lingered as if loath to leave the tenament of clay, and in another hour the frail form resumed its feeble functions.
In speaking of it afterwards, poor Grandma sadly remarked, I thought I was dead. What her thought were in that solemn suspension between earth and heaven, she never disclosed. Presybterian readers will recall that wonderful experience of William Tennent, a student of theology at New Brunswick, about 1730. He fell into a trance which continued for several days, and for weeks no life was expected. All of the symptoms of dissolution. But he recovered to preach, and was pastor for forty years. In referring to his prostration, he thought he was in heaven, and lost all interest in earlthly things. Paul, we remember, was caught into paradise, and heard unspeakable words not lawful for a man to utter. Remarkable vitality for one so weak and so aged. At intervals by night and day for two weeks after her apparent death, her bodily convulsions and cries of agony were very distressing to her watchers. A virulent cancer on the left side of her head added to the intensity of her sufferings. But these struggles gradually subsided, and the long conflict was at an end.
Night dews fall not more gently to the ground, Nor weary, worn out winds expire so soft.
Few invalids ever had such bounteous and abiding care. Two sympathetic hearts constantly by her bedside. Not strangers from a hospital but tried friends whom she had long known and cherished. Mrs. Journey, her housekeeper for years, and Mrs. Eyster, called to assist as the increasing demands of a painful sickness required more attention, both anticipated every wish, and at every call for Annie or Mary, no daughter’s hand could have been laid more tenderly on the aching brow. Aunty Miller’s life spanned the richest period of history. Gladstone thought the last fifty years of the nineteenth century thru which he lived were the most eventful, but to the English statesman’s experience she added the era of the completed telephone, the automobile, the airship, the Panama Canal, Africa illuminated. The world war came into her horizon, but her dim vision was not able to recognize its titanic wickedness. While the lines of Mrs. Browning are always beautiful and consoling, they are peculiarly fitting as we think of the aged mother, longing for rest, and wasted with the sorrows of a century; And friends, dear friends, when it shall be,
Contributed by Larry Reynolds - The Sterling Evening Gazette, January 2, 1915
