This is an essay-ish journal entry I wrote two years ago around the time of my Grandma Margie's death. I was 14 then and lacked a great deal of maturity. I worded things differently and I had a weaker theology. Though it is always my hope that when I read things I've written the past few days in the years to come, I shall see that in past I was weaker, so then I shall know that I have grown. I would not edit this, though, and I still believe what I said.
My grandmother passed away on September 11, 2008 and this is in memory of her, I cried when I reread this just now.
It’s a strange thing to think about - LIFE. To step back and look at the time you’ve been on this earth. The people you’ve met, the things that have happened. The joy and pain, fun and sorrow that have crisscrossed every day of your life. Some people have likened life to a road and I can see that quite easily.
Just this morning we were sent out in our woods to search for trees that had fallen across the paths during the recent hurricane. Five of us went, my little sister and two little brothers, our cousin and me. Plenty of tall grass grew on the paths so we were a bit paranoid about ticks. But what was even more bothersome was all the spiders that built their webs across the path, we had to stop our walking every few yards to clear them away. And as we walked and talked through the hot sun, the three boys whacking at branches that grew too low over the path, I began to think about life being like a road.
The decisions we have to make, like “Should we take the long way to the pond or the short way?”. The looking out for one another, like “There’s a bird spider web just in front of you.”. The remembering, like ”Do you remember the time we cut the X in that tree when we thought we were lost?”.
Even after we got out of the woods we had the “trial” of bathing and giving away puppies. Some of us learned how to make friendship bracelets. We got into arguments, we were disappointed, and we laughed. All in the minority of one day between seven or eight cousins.
All these little parts that made up one big Saturday will probably someday be squashed into what I may call “The Beauty of Gra’maw’s Last Illness”. For even though it’s been one of the saddest chunks of happenings since I’ve been old enough to really be sad, it has a dimension that is so wonderful.
To see Providence’s mighty hand in my life and my family’s.
To see how kind everyone has been, both family, old friends and people from Hospice. Bringing so much food that our oven feels unneeded, Offering to do things. Stopping by with physical, spiritual, and emotional help. And those simply offering prayer for Gran’maw and us.
I’ve seen the sacrifices that many people in our family have made, taking off work, making a joint effort in looking after the woman we all loved. I’ve seen it bring our family closer together. At least we’re spending more time together than we have in a long time.
To see old hymns take on new meaning with our own suffering, to see verses more beautiful, and applicable.
And despite all the comings and goings of people and things we have pulled out old albums and scrapbooks of things my grandmother saved, and old humor, beauty, memories, and even trials have been seen again by a younger generation. The delight of finding these things is almost enough to reconcile the most teased group in our family “Keepers”.
I have a hard time recalling before Gran’maw had Alzheimer’s disease, but the testimony of what others say and what she did is so very strong.
She lived 17 years with the effects of a stroke. She and Papaw raised my mother, aunt, and uncle. She wrote every week to her little brother fighting during World War 2, and later to his whole family living in South America for almost 40 years. And, when she was 15 years old both her parents died and her house burned down within 10 days.
To remember the prayers she prayed, to remember the songs she sung and remembered despite her forgetfulness. Beautiful, not so much for the music's sake, but for the heart that was behind it.
And I know that He who knew every trial my grandmother would face to form her into Christ’s likeness, knew, too, every spider web across our path going through the woods.
When I’m told that Gran’maw has died I may cry, I don’t know, it hasn’t happened yet, but I do know that I will have to feel joy. To know that the eyes we have just seen as slits recently will be seeing wonders. To know that lips that have not formed words for close to three weeks will be praising her Savior, to think of her seeing her parents and husband, to think of her being free of sinful flesh. Is it not beautiful to think of God, Almighty, Powerful and Holy directing our lives and hers until He takes us home? And in heaven who needs brown newspaper clippings and black-and-white photographs? They’re for people who can’t remember.
9/6-7/08
Laura
