Death … the final transition
My grandma died last Wednesday. In that moment, I said goodbye to an entire generation. She was my last living grandparent.
I like to remember the times she’d visit us in South Carolina and later in Virginia. We’d sit around the dining room table and play game after game of Rummicub. Grandma didn’t talk a lot; but when she did, her dry humor sent us into gales of laughter. When my parents spent two and a half weeks in Europe, she and my aunt, Barbara, came to stay with us. In between enduring “the chipmunks” at the loudest volume possible on the tape player and every manner of girl activity, they quilted on a huge quilt frame in the living room.
I remember visiting her in Florida one year and being enamored with her three wheeled bike.
She was fiercely independent, humble, yet slightly stubborn. But my favorite memory of her is the way she would suddenly smile in the middle of a conversation, her face creasing into a dozen more happy crinkles. 
I can’t imagine how happy she must be today, finally with Jesus the way she longed to be for so many of the past months.
We spent the weekend in Ohio to celebrate her life and mourn her passing. I watched the long line of friends and family who came to offer their condolences and once again, I reflected on the beauty that is part of death. I’ve witnessed a few deaths over the years, most of them in the intensive care unit where I worked. There is something sacred and indescribable about standing witness when the death angel flings back the curtain between life and eternity for a soul. Through my tears at Grandma’s funeral, I realized beauty exists in that same hushed disguise as families go through the last rite of passage for a loved one.
It was hidden in the hundreds of friends who knew and loved grandma and who stood in line for a long time to tell her sons and daughters how much they appreciated her.
Raw beauty exuded in the eloquent words of my uncle Ervin’s tribute about Grandma’s life. It reverberated through his words about her longing to see Jesus and the way she expressed her deep, deep longing to know that all her children and grandchildren would join her there.
It whispered through the cold as tiny white snowflakes slowly decorated the hair and coats of family members in front of me as we slowly followed the pall bearers to Grandma’s final resting place.
It wrapped it’s arms around us as family members took turns hand-filling the grave with dirt, a graceful cadence of shovels handled with dignity and honor while songs of heaven and worship muffled the thud of dirt. It showed itself in friends who drove seven hours one way on snowy roads to attend a funeral service for someone they’d never met because they love and care about my mom losing hers.
It sparkled later that night in a room overflowing with family members who shared laughter, reminisced over pictures, wrote thank you notes to those who helped over the time of Grandma’s death, and celebrated the opportunity to be together. “A funeral is a person’s last gift to friends and family,” my mom has said, “the gift of being together.” What a gift grandma gave us.
Beauty isn’t found in perfection or only in the absence of pain. Beauty is found in things that perfectly reflect the Father heart of God. What could be more beautiful than a life well-lived and well-loved?
My Grandmother (Mema) died in 2010. I remember sitting at her graveside service, next to my mother, and with my siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins etc. and then going to my uncle’s house afterward. We were all there together for the first time in maybe 20 years. Her death had brought us together and gave us that memory.
I’m sorry for your loss, but I can read in your words that you rejoice for your Grandmother who is now with Jesus the same way I do for mine. Truly, they are happier and more joyful where they are than we have ever been here.
Seriously, it is hard to even imagine who happy they must be! And twenty years?? That must have been some kind of a reunion!
Thank you for those beautiful words. I hope you don’t mind if I share them with a dear friend of mine who has just lost her husband to cancer. I am heading out in a few minutes to the visitation and this so eloquently echoed my heart. Death for the believer is such a paradox…. Pain and anguish and beauty and peace all in one… This dear friend died whispering, ” Jesus, Jesus, Sweet Jesus, Thank you!” Prayers as you adjust to the loss of your grandmother….
I’d feel honored. I’m so sorry about the loss of your friend.
This is beautiful, Michelle! You are so blessed–but you will miss her, won’t you? Love the photo of your grandma with Adam. I pray I too can leave a legacy that points people to Jesus.
I thought about that legacy thing so much this past weekend. It isn’t just what we do or what we say that people will remember. People know what we long for most in life. That’s saying a lot.
I came to check out your new blog space! I like it! But can you tell me what the word in the header means? I don’t have a clue.
I have not had much experience with death, but I did lose my grandparents a few years ago. I know they are both with Jesus now but it was still really sad for me. I guess it is important to keep in mind the temporary nature of this life versus the length of eternity.
Also, I hope this new blog helps you find your writing voice again! 😉
If you read the about page, it will make a lot more sense. But in short, it’s a description of a type of God’s covenant love in Hebrew. My writing voice is so buried under hours of homeschooling …..but trust me, you’ll hear from me when I find it. 🙂 I really miss it. When I have time to think about it. 😉
The last remaining grandparent…it feels so strange to go through that . My last remaining grandparent died when I was 18…I’m so glad you have such good memories to hold on to.
Love your blog, Michelle! And I know what it’s like to crawl out from under homeschooling to write every now and then. Leon is my biggest supporter. He knows words are my outlet some days. I hope to see more of you.
Thanks for stopping by! I’m never sure whether to read or write when I crawl out. Some days I just feel like the groundhog who peeks out of his hole and quickly goes back under. 😉