Grandmother

Last weekend I went home for my grandmother's memorial service. It wasn't an unexpected passing: cancer had been eating away at her body for months. But that doesn't make it any easier. In fact, I think because it was cancer (and not old age), I have moments of being angry, of feeling like she was stolen from us too soon. And yet, I know that she lived a wonderful 85 years and came to a point where she was ready to die. 85 sounds old, but to me, she was always young. She had a young spirit to her, a youthful smile.

I spoke at her funeral, a new experience for me. Here are a few highlights of what I said...
My grandmother was a classy lady. She always looked nice, had great taste, and was so graceful. And yet, she was also down to earth. The same woman who dined at the country club also picked up snakes in her garden. Once she saw a large snake slither down her hallway and into her bedroom closet, not to be found. When asked how she could go to sleep that night, knowing the snake was there somewhere, she responded with "I just pretend I'm camping."

The grandkids all remember riding around town with her in her little red convertible, easter egg hunts in her yard, choosing our own pumpkins from her garden, and countless Christmases and family dinners at her house.

My personal favorite memories...
She and I used to get up early when we were on vacation at the beach. Before the rest of the family woke up, we would go for walks on the beach, looking for sand dollars.

When I was 16 and learning to drive, she arrived at my house one day and had me drive her around to do her errands so that I could practice driving.

In college when I got a tattoo, she told me that she had one, too. After a month or two of me not knowing if I should believe her or not, one day she came to my house. She lifted her skirt to reveal a rose tattoo on her outer thigh. Then she said, "I showed you mine, now you show me yours." I did, and she made a few comments about how nice it was. Then, with a sly smile on her face, she said, "Mine comes off with soap and water, how are you going to get yours off?"
(I didn't tell that story at her funeral)

That's a bit of who my grandmother was.

Now I am coming to terms with the finality of death. Yes, I know that as Christians, death does not get the final word. For that, I am deeply grateful. But for now, in this world, death is final. I can't call her or send her a note. I won't see her at Christmas. I can't ask her questions about that picture of her playing pool surrounded by soldiers. I can't have her tell me the story of how she and grandfather first met. She can't teach me how to make a quilt (although she did help me start one when I was in college). I don't know if it's fully sunk in yet. At her funeral, I kept expecting to see her--her family and friends were all gathered, surely she should have been there.

Many of her friends approached me afterwards and told me that they'd heard so much about me and that she was so proud of me. I wanted to ask them to tell me everything she'd said, as if I could get one last word from her, one last message. Instead, I just smiled.

I asked my mom if it was wrong for me to think I was Grandmother's favorite, because sometimes I do. But then, I started thinking about each of my cousins, and how I've seen them each interact with her. And I could imagine them each thinking the same thing. And I guess that's another gift that she gave each of us--that feeling that we are each loved deeply and are so special to her.

This post is long, and significantly more meaningful for me than for anyone else who might read it, so I suppose I should end.

Here's to my grandmother, a woman I hope to emulate as I grow older.