My Grandmother (father's mother) was a few weeks away from 90 when she died. Her funeral was on Friday and still I find myself reeling from it all.
I found out on Saturday morning (via multiple cryptic messages from family and a 3 AM Facetime call with my dad) that what I had assumed was a routine visit to the doctor and would soon find my Grandmother back in her apartment, had taken a turn for the worse. A skin infection, undetected breast cancer, kidney failure, heart failure, and respiratory failure meant that my Grandmother likely would not live through the week. Dialysis was on the menu but hadn't helped the previous day and wasn't expected to do much good except to prolong her life a few more days.
Immediately, I began thinking of the necessity of going home though I didn't know when that might be. But by Sunday afternoon, I received the message, "We've done all we can...we are letting her go." I had already booked my flight home for Wednesday, having spoken with my dad and having him tell me that if I was going to come home, it needed to be sooner rather than later.
I hoped (without much faith that I would receive that particular desire) that I would get to see Grandmother before she died. I got to say goodbye to her via Facetime, but it's not the same as getting to hold her hand or stroke her hair or whisper that I love her and that I'll give her a better hug when I see her again in Heaven. She wasn't responsive and wouldn't have been by the time I would have arrived anyway. Her biggest fear was that she would "linger." That she would hang around, a sick and constant reminder of our pain. She was dying and she knew it. She was ready to go and had no intention of waiting around and prolonging her time on Earth while Heaven waited for her.
She passed peacefully at 4:32 PM on Monday.
There is a lot more I could write about: the insanity of my last two days in Hungary, saying goodbye to my kids, the enormity of what my roommate did for me, the enjoyment of being reunited with friends and family three weeks early, the beauty and pain of the funeral (and it's likely I will write about it eventually) - but I want to tell you all about my Grandmother. I basically grew up down the street from her. A majority of my childhood memories are in her house and as an adult I was able to recognize and be thankful for her character.
Tiffany and I grew up probably five minutes from Grandmother's house. She picked us up from preschool and often took us to McDonald's or the library afterward to play on the playground or pick out some fun books. She also let me lay down on the floorboard of the back seat of the car - perhaps not the safest thing ever, but I had fun :)
My cousins, Shiree and Lydia are close in age to us and also lived nearby and so they would often be at the house, too. We passed hours digging up different colored mud in the front yard and making mud pies. Or climbing the apple tree in the back yard. Or raking small piles of leaves and jumping into them. Or using that weird metal thing to pick up the fallen pecans. We played Cinderella in her living room - taking bowls of water and rags and spreading water all over her floor (probably making more of a mess than actually cleaning). She taught Tiffany and me to crochet chains and then let us destroy her yarn in our competition to have the longest chain by the end of the day. Shiree and I played "Quest" - a game in which we fought dragons and unicorns with magic and apparently never let our siblings play. We typed notes to each other on her old typewriter and played the same songs over and over again on her out of tune piano. We played cards and watched Fantasia and ate dinner at Luby's and Golden Corral at 5 PM. There was an air freshener spray that I thought was the best thing ever and would use constantly regardless of whether or not there was a foul odor. In her bathroom she had a cabinet full of assorted creams, powders, and lipsticks - all of which none of us could resist using every time we used the restroom.
And all the while, Grandmother sat back and watched (hopefully) enjoying the craziness of her four granddaughters.
She traveled all the time. Overseas and domestically, she had photo albums full of her travels. She even came on our band trip to Ireland when I was 17. How cool is that? To say that your Grandmother got to go to Ireland with you! And let me tell you, I don't know if there was anyone more excited for me when I told her I was moving to Hungary.
As an adult, you begin to see your grandparents as more than just the person who spoils you and lets you run around like a maniac when your parents drop you off for the summer. You begin to see them as a person.
My grandmother was a quiet person. She liked to sit back in big groups and observe. She didn't often engage in conversation unless directly spoken to, but she watched and listened to everything. But one-on-one and she had a lot to say.
She was generous.
She was independent.
She was determined.
She loved her family.
She loved to read. Up until she lost her eye-sight, there was always a stack of books on the table next to her chair. I always loved asking her what she was reading now.
She was adventurous. What other kind of 70-something person would willingly get on a bus with 200 high schoolers in a foreign country?
She loved the Lord and served Him with all of her heart. Tiffany and I often tagged along to stuff envelopes or do fellowship lunch at her church.
She was crafty. Crocheting blankets. Cross-stitching pillows.
And one of my last conversations with her last summer, she talked to me about something I'll never forget. For a number of years now, she had suffered from macular degeneration, which means that slowly she had lost her eyesight. She told me that she had prayed to God, telling Him that He could take anything except her sight. She needed that in order to read, cross-stitch, do crossword puzzles, drive, and maintain her independence. And God, in His grace and omniscience, still took her eyesight. She told me that she was angry about it. She didn't understand. And she was frustrated. And then somewhere along the line, she received a gift from a hospital chaplain that encouraged her to meet God in her pain and frustration. I don't know the contents of that discussion, but she talked to God about it and she listened to Him and she came to a place where she was at peace with what had happened. She wasn't happy about being blind, but she surrendered it and was at peace with what a God who loved her had chosen for her.
What a gift for me to hear my Grandmother express that to me.
Well, as I was grieving at the beginning of this week, I too met God in my pain - going before Him and asking Him for help as I grieve. He reminded me of that conversation with her. He reminded me of how hard it was for her to not have her sight. And then He reminded me that now she is in Heaven with a perfect body, her eyesight restored. And more than that - after many years of darkness, the first thing she's going to see again is the loving face of Christ.
So, I miss her. I'll miss her quiet stillness, her generosity, and her constant love, but I know that her life didn't end...not really. She is with Jesus without pain, sorrow, or sin and I can joyfully be thankful for that.
Praise amid pain.
I found out on Saturday morning (via multiple cryptic messages from family and a 3 AM Facetime call with my dad) that what I had assumed was a routine visit to the doctor and would soon find my Grandmother back in her apartment, had taken a turn for the worse. A skin infection, undetected breast cancer, kidney failure, heart failure, and respiratory failure meant that my Grandmother likely would not live through the week. Dialysis was on the menu but hadn't helped the previous day and wasn't expected to do much good except to prolong her life a few more days.
Immediately, I began thinking of the necessity of going home though I didn't know when that might be. But by Sunday afternoon, I received the message, "We've done all we can...we are letting her go." I had already booked my flight home for Wednesday, having spoken with my dad and having him tell me that if I was going to come home, it needed to be sooner rather than later.
I hoped (without much faith that I would receive that particular desire) that I would get to see Grandmother before she died. I got to say goodbye to her via Facetime, but it's not the same as getting to hold her hand or stroke her hair or whisper that I love her and that I'll give her a better hug when I see her again in Heaven. She wasn't responsive and wouldn't have been by the time I would have arrived anyway. Her biggest fear was that she would "linger." That she would hang around, a sick and constant reminder of our pain. She was dying and she knew it. She was ready to go and had no intention of waiting around and prolonging her time on Earth while Heaven waited for her.
She passed peacefully at 4:32 PM on Monday.
There is a lot more I could write about: the insanity of my last two days in Hungary, saying goodbye to my kids, the enormity of what my roommate did for me, the enjoyment of being reunited with friends and family three weeks early, the beauty and pain of the funeral (and it's likely I will write about it eventually) - but I want to tell you all about my Grandmother. I basically grew up down the street from her. A majority of my childhood memories are in her house and as an adult I was able to recognize and be thankful for her character.
Tiffany and I grew up probably five minutes from Grandmother's house. She picked us up from preschool and often took us to McDonald's or the library afterward to play on the playground or pick out some fun books. She also let me lay down on the floorboard of the back seat of the car - perhaps not the safest thing ever, but I had fun :)
My cousins, Shiree and Lydia are close in age to us and also lived nearby and so they would often be at the house, too. We passed hours digging up different colored mud in the front yard and making mud pies. Or climbing the apple tree in the back yard. Or raking small piles of leaves and jumping into them. Or using that weird metal thing to pick up the fallen pecans. We played Cinderella in her living room - taking bowls of water and rags and spreading water all over her floor (probably making more of a mess than actually cleaning). She taught Tiffany and me to crochet chains and then let us destroy her yarn in our competition to have the longest chain by the end of the day. Shiree and I played "Quest" - a game in which we fought dragons and unicorns with magic and apparently never let our siblings play. We typed notes to each other on her old typewriter and played the same songs over and over again on her out of tune piano. We played cards and watched Fantasia and ate dinner at Luby's and Golden Corral at 5 PM. There was an air freshener spray that I thought was the best thing ever and would use constantly regardless of whether or not there was a foul odor. In her bathroom she had a cabinet full of assorted creams, powders, and lipsticks - all of which none of us could resist using every time we used the restroom.
And all the while, Grandmother sat back and watched (hopefully) enjoying the craziness of her four granddaughters.
She traveled all the time. Overseas and domestically, she had photo albums full of her travels. She even came on our band trip to Ireland when I was 17. How cool is that? To say that your Grandmother got to go to Ireland with you! And let me tell you, I don't know if there was anyone more excited for me when I told her I was moving to Hungary.
As an adult, you begin to see your grandparents as more than just the person who spoils you and lets you run around like a maniac when your parents drop you off for the summer. You begin to see them as a person.
My grandmother was a quiet person. She liked to sit back in big groups and observe. She didn't often engage in conversation unless directly spoken to, but she watched and listened to everything. But one-on-one and she had a lot to say.
She was generous.
She was independent.
She was determined.
She loved her family.
She loved to read. Up until she lost her eye-sight, there was always a stack of books on the table next to her chair. I always loved asking her what she was reading now.
She was adventurous. What other kind of 70-something person would willingly get on a bus with 200 high schoolers in a foreign country?
She loved the Lord and served Him with all of her heart. Tiffany and I often tagged along to stuff envelopes or do fellowship lunch at her church.
She was crafty. Crocheting blankets. Cross-stitching pillows.
And one of my last conversations with her last summer, she talked to me about something I'll never forget. For a number of years now, she had suffered from macular degeneration, which means that slowly she had lost her eyesight. She told me that she had prayed to God, telling Him that He could take anything except her sight. She needed that in order to read, cross-stitch, do crossword puzzles, drive, and maintain her independence. And God, in His grace and omniscience, still took her eyesight. She told me that she was angry about it. She didn't understand. And she was frustrated. And then somewhere along the line, she received a gift from a hospital chaplain that encouraged her to meet God in her pain and frustration. I don't know the contents of that discussion, but she talked to God about it and she listened to Him and she came to a place where she was at peace with what had happened. She wasn't happy about being blind, but she surrendered it and was at peace with what a God who loved her had chosen for her.
What a gift for me to hear my Grandmother express that to me.
Well, as I was grieving at the beginning of this week, I too met God in my pain - going before Him and asking Him for help as I grieve. He reminded me of that conversation with her. He reminded me of how hard it was for her to not have her sight. And then He reminded me that now she is in Heaven with a perfect body, her eyesight restored. And more than that - after many years of darkness, the first thing she's going to see again is the loving face of Christ.
So, I miss her. I'll miss her quiet stillness, her generosity, and her constant love, but I know that her life didn't end...not really. She is with Jesus without pain, sorrow, or sin and I can joyfully be thankful for that.
Praise amid pain.
