In All Uncertain Terms

It was mid-November, just starting to get chilly where I live. The sky was cloudy and gray, so that the room was dimly lit even through the large windows, and despite only being afternoon, it felt as though the sun had set already. I sat across from my boss’s boss, as he peered at me over the top of his laptop screen. I’d intended to be speaking to my direct supervisor, but her child had recently been afflicted with a rare, complicated, difficult-to-treat medical condition, so she would be out of town for an unknown number of weeks.

I was really only there to tell him two things pertinent to my job, but in my head, it felt like a million burdens. First, that my grandma was dying. Since my mom was my primary babysitter, and she was suddenly needed to care for my grandma, this meant that my work schedule was up in the air, dependent upon what childcare I could scramble together in the coming days and weeks. Second, that I was pregnant, and more importantly to the company, that I would not be returning to work after the baby’s birth.

My boss was a kind man, so he was genuinely sorry for the first piece of news, and genuinely happy for the second, at least, for my part. “It must be hard,” he said, “to grapple with the joy of new life in the midst of grieving another.” I hadn’t yet thought of it that way, but the background of my mind and heart was to be painted with those two contradictory sentiments over the next several months.

The following weekend, I attended a birthday party for a family member, and this was to be the place to announce the new baby’s coming. There were mixed reactions, some hearing the news and being about as affected as if they were to hear, “It’s going to rain tomorrow.” For some others, their facial expressions seemed to say, “Really, so soon? How irresponsible of you.” But plenty were excited, though none more so than my grandma. While the birthday party should have been a wholly happy occasion, for me (and I’d wager for many others, too), it was bittersweet. The person most excited for my new baby was the person there who would not get to meet him.

A week and a half later, my mom told me that if I wanted to visit Grandma again, I should probably do it that night. I’m not sure what I was expecting when I arrived, but my heart was warmed to see the yard full of cars. My grandma had loved hosting, and most holidays and other family gatherings were held at her house. Seeing the many vehicles, then walking into a warm, crowded, noisy, joyful house felt just like all the other times. I was especially touched to see my mom’s best friend, in the kitchen preparing food. She and my mom had been going through a bit of a distant period, and while it wasn’t over yet, I was glad to see her there for my parents when they needed it. For me, she’s always been a calm, welcoming, reassuring presence, and she excels at hospitality.

The evening felt less joyous as I made my way down the hallway. It got quieter and cooler the farther back into the house I went, even though the place isn’t large. I stepped into the bedroom to see my sister sitting in a kitchen chair beside the bed, holding my grandma’s hand, and speaking to her quietly. I stood there for a long while, looking, listening. She spoke to my grandma about many little things: what she’d had for lunch that day, the color of her fingernails, what her ornery toddler had been up to. When she eventually got up to go eat supper, I took her place in the wooden chair.

I’ve felt incompetent and helpless quite a few times in my life, and this was certainly one of them. I wanted to comfort my grandma during the last hours of her life, but I didn’t know how. Even though she was still there, she didn’t look like my grandma. The woman before me was tiny, withered away like the brown leaves falling just outside. Her eyes were closed, and she lay there unspeaking, unmoving. Though her heart still beat and her lungs still expanded and deflated, it sort of felt like she’d already left. I’ve never been good at small talk. It’s not for lack of desire, but it doesn’t come naturally to me. My partner in conversation often ends up bearing the burden of finding simple subjects about which we can talk. It’s a fault, I know. I wished I could sit next to my grandma and comfort her in the way my sister had, endlessly speaking about whatever came to mind, but the problem was that nothing came to mind. My brain was a blank slate, aside from the mist of dismay that hung in the air. So I just held her hand, and silently prayed. I hoped that even though no words left my mouth, the touch and the intercession were enough to help, at least a little. I prayed that she would have little pain, that her departure from this life would happen in a moment, not to be dragged out over the course of minutes or hours, and that she would have peace once she was gone.

While sitting there, I noticed a card lying on the bedside table. It said, “The One who made us has the power to heal us,” or something like that. It’s true, and I guess it can be a helpful reminder of God’s sovereignty and the need for prayer, but in that moment, it felt a bit cruel. I felt as if it mockingly said, “God can fix this, but he won’t.” I know that wasn’t the intent of whoever sent the card, but it did make me ponder what the church’s expectations are. I can be a rather cynical person myself, and while I do believe miracles are possible, such as a person suddenly being cured of late-stage cancer, I don’t believe they’re common. While I do still pray for physical healing sometimes, I’ve found that my hopes are often tempered, and I tend to expect that whatever healing God will bring is likely to come post-death, in the resurrection and the New Earth.

It’s not a bad way to think, but it’s really more of a way to protect myself from disappointment when things don’t work out the way I’ve asked. If I don’t expect much, I’m less likely to be let down. Perhaps I need to be bolder in my requests.

This spring, I was driving to Walmart, and at one of the intersections though which I passed, I saw the aftermath of an accident. There was a motorcycle lying on its side, and several feet away from it, a limp body on the ground. A car was parked in front of the man with its hazards on, and another man was standing over the body, on his phone and greatly distressed. I thought for sure that the person was dead. Sobbing, I continued on my drive and prayed that the man knew Jesus, and that his family would be okay. Once I reached the parking lot, I sent a message to my church, asking for prayer for the man. I was hesitant to do that. It’s not my business, I thought.

I later learned that the motorcyclist was someone I knew. I had gone to school with some of his kids, had gone to youth group and on mission trips with them. As the updates on his condition slowly came in, I was humbled by how gracious God had chosen to be. Not only did He answer the prayer that the man knew Jesus, but so did his family. Not only did he know Jesus, but he was going to live. Not only was he going to live, but, although his injuries were severe, he was going to fully recover. Things could have been much, much worse. As a teenager, one of my jobs was to help care for someone who had been in a motorcycle accident. The person she’d been riding with had been killed, and she was left permanently mentally and physically disabled. So I knew firsthand how miraculous it was that the man I knew would someday return to his normal life. I’m comforted to know that God doesn’t give only what I ask for, and that other members of the church are confident enough to ask for more than the bare minimum. Perhaps He knew that this summer, the man’s wife would go on to start a ministry to provide jobs for widows in East Africa, so that they wouldn’t have to resort to prostitution to survive, and that she would likely not be able to do that if she were a new widow herself.

For my grandma, though, that kind of miraculous dodging of death was not to be the case. The next morning, she passed away. I’m not sure what I felt when I heard the news. I was sad, of course, but I also knew it was coming–and to be honest, I was never very close to my grandma, anyway. That was my siblings. Because of that fact, I didn’t leave work right away, but my boss insisted that I should be with family, or at least take the afternoon off to stay home. I decided to go, to be there for my dad, mom, and siblings. Regardless of what frustrations my dad may have felt toward her in life, he still lost his mom, and I think that’s a pretty devastating moment for most people. I know it will be for me. While I didn’t know how to comfort my dying grandma, I know my parents and siblings better, and thought I might be better equipped to help the living.

It was good that my boss made me leave work, and that I chose to see family, rather than stay home. When I entered the house, which now felt eerily empty despite the fair amount of persons inside, I was met with the sound of loud, drunk conversation and laughter. It first struck me as disrespectful that family members were drinking, telling crude stories and sex jokes in the house of a woman who would surely be scandalized by such behavior, just hours after her passing. They say everyone grieves differently, though, so perhaps it was their way of coping with and numbing the pain they felt.

My sister is not like that, though. Fully sober and generally quiet, the scene in the living room was not the right environment for her mourning. So we stood in the dining room, staring out the window at the cardinals prancing about the deck, as she told me stories and memories. I had no words of encouragement, but I don’t think I needed them. Sometimes a mere listening ear is enough to make the worst of things a little better.

As afternoon turned to evening, the rowdy crowd slowly dissipated, and all who were left were me, my infant child, my sister, and my parents. My son’s babbling and smiles were enough to make the house a little more cheery. We sat in the living room looking through boxes and boxes of old photos, remembering and retelling. I’m young enough to not remember many family members who have passed away, but it was nice to learn a little more about the history that predates my recollection. I think it was healing, too.

At the funeral, I listened to people speak about my grandmother’s kindness, welcoming demeanor, and love for Jesus. I felt a little strange sitting there in the pew, because I got the sense that others knew a side of her that I did not, or perhaps just less. Of course I loved her, but my opinions about her character were mixed. I know it’s taboo to speak ill of the dead, and no one wants a funeral where the pastor says, “So-and-so was vain, funny, two-faced, smart, generous, and a vicious gossip,” but it still felt inauthentic to say that everyone who interacted with her felt loved and could see that she loved Christ. I remembered my brother’s ex-wife, whom my grandma blamed for each and every one of his problems and poor decisions, even though he was a grown adult with free will and a mind of his own. She may have been friendly to her face, but I heard many a nasty word spoken behind closed doors. I could not recall a time my grandma had spoken about her faith personally. She attended church, and participated in and gave to many church functions, but that was the extent of my knowledge of her religion. Of course, others may have known more. I won’t pretend that I knew her best.

My grandmother’s obituary highlighted her many talents. It was at the funeral, as it was read, that I realized how much we had in common. I don’t know why, but it never occurred to me how many interests we shared, until after her death. Reading, painting, cooking and baking, and gardening are the hobbies that most easily come to mind. In fact, she probably played a large role in helping me cultivate a love for those things. When I was young and stayed with her during the days in the summer, she would often take me to the library. I would help her water her plants, and we would sit on the living room floor and color or paint together. However, as a child, I always felt a bit stifled by her supervision. Fantasy was (and still is) the literary genre I most naturally gravitate toward, but somehow, I always left the library with a stack of historical fiction (her favorite). I remember being told I was drawing a picture with the “wrong” colors, and in a certain painting project that was supposed to be a joint effort, being more of an observer than participant.

There are other, less desirable traits I inherited, too. My grandma could be one of the most vocal critics I knew, a tendency I often have to fight myself. She could be overly focused on the superficial, and while I may be less likely to comment on others’ appearances, it doesn’t mean that I don’t think about them more than I should. She thought herself the victim in every scenario. As a teenager, I got in trouble for sarcastically indulging this mindset during a game of dominoes, saying, “Yes, Grandma, you’ve caught on to our scheme. We are all ganging up to sabotage you.” Though I hate to admit it, I do have a tendency to think of myself as an innocent bystander in any given problem, and others as the perpetrators of injustice.

One of my teachers in high school said that we should all try to carry on the good qualities of our ancestors, and leave behind the bad. It’s not a particularly new or striking opinion, but it’s stuck with me. I’ll try to mimic my grandmother’s creativity and self-taught disciplines, while allowing others (especially my children) to express themselves in ways wholly different than I would choose to do. I’ll try to be a hospitable host, without later voicing all my complaints about my guests. I’ll try to make sure that my church attendance isn’t the only reason others know I’m a Christian, but that I actually act like Jesus: helping the poor and marginalized, confronting oppression, giving grace and good news, and putting the needs of others’ above my own–and when I inevitably fail, I hope that those I love can forgive me.

At Christmas, my parents wrapped up as gifts any items of my grandma’s that each family member had requested to inherit, as well as some that hadn’t been specifically asked for, but would nonetheless be appreciated. When it was my turn to open a package, I found a pair of silver baby spoons. I hadn’t asked for them (or even known they existed), but apparently my grandma expressed that she wished for me to have them. In recent years, we didn’t see much of each other, but I know my older son brought her much delight on the occasions we did visit, and it was probably evident that he (and now my younger one, too) was my pride and joy. The item I did ask for was her nativity set. I’m not a terribly sentimental person, and there was little overlap between my and my grandmother’s taste in decor, but I have never seen a nativity set I liked as much as hers. It’s probably fitting, too, that it was given to her by our coastal relatives, since their annual visits comprise some of my happiest memories of her house (closely followed by watching Andy Griffith while eating a lunch of homemade macaroni and cheese).

At the center of any nativity scene, of course, is a baby: a baby who would later die for the good of others, but also live again, and eventually defeat death entirely. As I write this, my sister has just had a baby, and a distant family member (by marriage) has just died. I didn’t know him, but he was important to people I love, so I grieve for their sake. As for my new nephew, I know my grandma would have loved to meet him, and that my sister probably laments the fact that she never got to share her new gift with her. Earlier this year, when the birth of my younger child was near, a prominent figure from my childhood and teenage years, who was dear to me, passed away as well. In my current season of raising little ones, I am once again confronted with the juxtaposition of mourning deaths while also celebrating new lives. I can’t pretend to understand it, but I’m glad to have hope. I pray that someday, hopefully many years from now, when it’s time for me to depart this life, my children and children’s children have new lives to celebrate, and that they can forgive my shortcomings while honoring the ways in which I blessed them.