“When you were born, you cried and the world rejoiced. Live your life so that when you die, the world cries and you rejoice.”
I don’t know that any writer has ever crafted the most appropriate way to start out a story of loss.
I certainly haven’t.
So, I’ll simply say this: Yesterday, my grandmother passed away.
In preparing to write this, I read through other tributes on social media and in obituaries. So many of these announcements begin with sadness. I want to try something different; I want to tell my grandmother’s story so you can, hopefully, understand why I couldn’t bring myself to lead with sadness.
Grandma Bonnie was one of eight children and she experienced loss early; struggle became a theme so early in her life. A brother died when he was just 2 years old. Grandma was born during the Great Depression and she remembered extremely lean times; having some food, but still being hungry. She lived on a farm and all the children were expected to work hard. While she talked fondly of her mother, her father wasn’t a kind man to her growing up.
Grandma had a yearning early on for something grander than herself…a desire to learn more about God. Her father wasn’t religious and in fact, shunned religion. It created a damaging wedge between them.
As she moved into motherhood, my grandma watched her son (my father) grow to adore his grandfather. Grandma kept her prejudices to herself; kept her hurt hidden so dad could have a wonderful relationship with his grandfather. She hid her feelings so well that it wasn’t until I was an adult that I began to piece together that the relationship between my grandma and her father was difficult. What an incredible act of selflessness.
My grandmother married early (at 18) and on the heels of World War II; another terrible time she lived through. My grandfather enlisted under-age and fought in the Army-Air Force. As every soldier knows, you bring home mental and emotional scars, a burden my grandmother shouldered, unwavering.
My dad’s childhood was classic Americana and by all accounts a wonderful home to grow up in. Grandma even went on to become a real estate agent in her 50’s and often said…well into her 80’s…that she could still be doing it. But grandpa wanted to retire and he wanted her to retire with him. So, she did. Another act of selflessness.
As my father became a young adult, tragedy struck again. My dad’s sister passed away shortly after giving birth to my cousin.
This event set off a difficult time for my grandparents. My cousin’s father was so grief stricken that he asked my grandparents to watch over my cousin. He left her there for years. Later, he did come take her back into his home and, while happy that my cousin was back where she belonged…it didn’t last. My cousin returned to my grandparents and they were tasked again with raising a child. More acts of selflessness.
It’s an unwritten, universal law that no parent should ever have to bury a child. And when it happens, it’s as if the heavens themselves weep with you. Below is a little bit that my grandmother wrote about the experience, in her own handwriting:
If you couldn’t quite make it out, it read:
“I couldn’t accept that she died. One day, as I was sobbing and grieving, I felt a peace come over me and I know it was God’s presence. I have never questioned God after that.”
She buried a child and chose peace over anger and acceptance over grief. The natural order of the universe was broken…but it couldn’t break her nor her faith.
Years later her older sister suffered a significant stroke and was left nearly catatonic for a decade. Yet grandma’s faith in a Higher Power never faltered. Another sister struggled with heart issues for years and had dozens of surgeries, heart attacks and near-misses. While “Aunt Sis” eventually succumbed to her heart disease…she was of the same stock as Grandma…and together, they never chose despair. Instead it was always faith, joy and peace.
As the years went by, she and grandpa continued to live on their own. Up until just a few short years ago, they traveled the country independently. Grandma drove until about 6 months ago. They were blessed with immense health, longevity and mental acuity.
One of the most poignant and meaningful conversations I had with my grandmother came a few years ago. I had been to the hospital a few times with what I thought were heart-attacks…and they ended up being anxiety attacks. I was on various medications and trying to get my legs underneath me, but still completely shaken. Battered. And afraid I was broken.
I was telling Grandma about the journey and she had a concerned look on her face, so I told her: “don’t worry, I’ll be OK.”
She looked me square in the eyes with crystal-blue fire swirling in hers and said “I never worry about you being OK. I know you. I believe in you. And I know for a fact you’ll be better than OK.”
And I thought “if this woman can have that kind of unflappable faith in me…I need to start believing in me again too.” And I did. It took awhile…but she was right. I am better than OK again.
There are so many stories and memories just like that. So much joy and laughter not typed on this page. How can I possibly capture 92 years well-lived in a 1,000 word blog post?
What I hoped to accomplish with this writing is giving you a glimpse into this light-beam I called “grandma.” And, perhaps after reading this, you can understand why I couldn’t bring myself to lead her story off with sadness.
Leading with sadness would have disrespected everything she believed in and discounted every battle she fought; and she did fight. She was a mighty, 5’1 warrior in her own right. Her upbringing was difficult. She suffered enormous burdens. She had every right in the world to be bitter. Angry. Closed-off.
My grandmother was anything but bitter. She exuded joy. She walked into a room, beaming. She was always laughing and had a wicked sense of humor…with just a pinch of sarcasm to keep you honest. She fought against despair and suffering. Her "weapons" of choice were faith, love and hope.
So, again I ask: How could I have started off this memorial with sadness? How could I, having spent 42 years with someone that is joy personified…insult that memory and begin her story with that?
She has watched all of her grandchildren grow into adults. She met all of her great-grandchildren and watched many of them become young adults. She was an active participant in all of our lives, not just a bystander.
How can I do anything but celebrate a life well-lived?
And I will do that…celebrate, that is. Eventually.
But today…the world is a bit less joyful. It’s a bit darker because a brilliant beam of light has been extinguished.
I also wrestle with the havoc and chaos this virus has caused. I have a wife that is compromised and I've made the painful decision to stay as quarantined as possible. Which meant I haven't been able to visit with grandma in person these last few months. We talked on the phone and over video chats. Deep, deep down I know she understood that I was doing my best to protect everyone I care about...but I can't help feeling an enormous amount of regret, guilt and second-guessing.
I'll never know if I made the "right" choice; whether this decision protected us or was over-reaction. My hope is that grandma knew it was never an easy choice and one made from love, not fear. She always fought to protect her family...and I hope I honored her by trying to do the same for mine.
With that: Grandma, you'll have to forgive me, but I need a little time to be sad. I need space to mourn. I won’t wallow here for long. I’ll live, honor and follow your example and seek joy instead of sadness.
But not today. Not yet.
Love always,
Brian
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