This past month has been very difficult, to say the least. In the midst of this pandemic, with the shelter-in-place order, our lives were even more shaken. Living so close to my grandparents, they are (and always have been) a huge part of my life. Pandemics are a crisis for us, but for the elderly, the lonely, the ones who are dealing with even a touch of dementia or confusion, they are devastating. This pandemic, the first we’ve experienced in such depth around here, placed fear in our paths. The unknowns. The unseen. The uncertainty of Covid-19 led us to social distance with even our closest ones. And my sweet grandma didn’t understand.
So, while we were truly trying to keep her safe, to protect her already frail body from experiencing even more pain and illness, she was living out her last days. None of us knew it and even on March 26, the day the shelter in place began, the kids and I visited and chatted through the screen. I stopped her from coming outside to be with me. She thought I was afraid of her. “I just want to keep you safe, Grandma. I really do. I don’t want to be the reason you get sick.”
I handed her banana bread through a crack in the door. She cut up a ten pound ham and sent some home with me. She never could let us leave empty handed, even when we were trying to take care of her.
Then Sunday, April 19 came and she was just so weak. They couldn’t do it any longer. The ambulance came and she was carried away, waving goodbye. I love yous and see you soons and sweet kiss from her sweetheart, and she was on her way. We thought she’d be right back with news of dehydration and simple fixes. But it wasn’t so simple and it wasn’t so good and she wasn’t going to be any better. The cancer was back, it spread, the mass was so huge. She was failing. Her body was weak. And she fell.
And the kids and I stood the grassy middle of their drive and waved again a goodbye. Come back soon. Love you lots. She waved again, counted heads. Smiled at them and said, “I love you all. Don’t be afraid, Grandma will be okay.” And she turned to the EMT who commented on her “fan club” and told him with pride “and they are ALL hers!” To which I smiled with pride.
Soon she was home again but the week passed so quickly now looking back. Each day we’d sit with her, hold her hand and coax her to eat or drink. Each day the cancer progressed quickly throughout her weak frame, each day a little more of her was gone. On Thursday she sat up at the table and ate. On Friday she told me she loved me. On Saturday she asked for us to take care of Grandpa. She asked for ice cream. She knew her loved ones were coming and she asked to quit. And I hummed Amazing Grace and held her hand, the one she had told me just six days before were beginning to look so old like her mothers. The hands I told her were precious blessings because they carried so many babies and grand babies and worked so hard serving others. The hands that looked aged to her, looked like they lived a well loved life to me. The moments I cling to are the quiet ones, the everyday ones, the normal.
I know doing life with them, the everyday, normal, mundane was a blessing not everyone gets to have with their grandparents. Picking up sticks, taking walks, eating a humble lunch, raking leaves, planting flowers, picking peonies…holy moments that I treasure. And the holy moment she left this broken earth, the moment she met her Savior and her body and heart and mind were healed…I treasure them all, but from this side death still stings. I long to be in the place of Glory with her someday. I even told Grandpa that night I was a bit jealous. He quickly responded, “You are don’t here yet. You have kids to raise. But I’m ready.”
In the midst of a crisis, a pandemic, a world wide uncertainty, one thing was and is certain to me, and that is they were ready. They were ready. Ready to be with their Savior, Jesus. Ready to be together again. Ready to be with all the ones who have gone before them. Ready to be healed and rid of this broken and painful world we live in.
I long for them. I long for heaven. I cling to hope.