Finding the Way in Waiting

I’ve been mulling over this post ever since I wrote my last piece about Grandma.  There were a few moments from her last days that I wanted to expound upon, but it was too fresh, too painful to do then.  This week I’ve felt the desire to go ahead and rip the band-aid off.  And maybe by exposing the wound, by opening up, healing can come faster.

A week or so after Grandma’s 97th birthday, hospice care was called in for her.  Their wisdom and help was very needed and appreciated by our hurting family.  In the end, making almost any decision is emotionally draining.  On top of everything else, Grandma suffered a minor stroke at the nursing home.  It was increasingly evident that her time was nearing a close.  Or as the hospice nurses would say, “Her body is entering the transitional phase.”  I liked to think of this phase not as “Life to Death” but as “Death to Everlasting Life.”  Regardless, it was hard.

Week by week, I could see the decline.  When she first came to the nursing home, I brought our beloved game of Farkle for us to play together.  She sat in her wheelchair, wheezing slightly when she straightened to roll the dice, and complaining thoroughly when I won.  So basically, she was her same sassy self only weaker.  2 weeks later, she wasn’t even getting out of bed.  She would float in and out of consciousness while I read or talked to her about Elijah.  Eventually, she just slept.  Then I would come in to simply sit next to her, hold her hand, and cry.

Around this time, one of the hospice nurses gave my family a timeline.  As in, “She has 24-48 hours left.”  Based on her expertise, she felt confident judging the signs present in Grandma.  So we circled the wagons and waited.  And waited.  The suggested window of time passed with no marked change in Grandma.  It sounds silly now, but my blood was boiling.  I concentrated my frustration on the nurse who inadvertently gave false information to our family (My anger *might have* been magnified by my grief.  Just an observation, not an excuse).  Of course my Grandma wasn’t going to die according to anyone’s prediction; she was super opinionated and stubborn.  But still, we were heartbroken.  I would never say that we were wishing for her death, but we were preparing for it.  In that preparation you feel stripped and emotionally volatile, a turtle without its shell, a grenade minus its pin.

That week’s visits were the worst.  I unintentionally (but perhaps subconsciously) put them off for as long as possible, delaying by watching stupid Netflix shows and taking forever to get dressed.  I dragged my feet the whole way to the nursing home, arriving late in the afternoon.  Because I could hardly bear to see her like this.  My vibrant Grandma’s existence had been reduced to a hospital bed and a number of shuddering breaths.  The knowledge that this was the natural cycle of life, that she was lucky to have had so many good years, vanished as soon as I walked in those doors.  Sitting next to her, I felt as if all hope had been sucked from the room.  I painted her nails a ridiculously bright and sparkly maroon just for something normal to do.  Then I read, each page punctuated by her sporadic breathing.  Every breath (and the spaces between) a lifetime in itself.  I never felt so conflicted (happy/guilty/relieved) about leaving a place as I was upon exiting the nursing home that Tuesday.  

But then there was Wednesday.  By now those 24-48 hours had passed and the time lingered painfully.  Our friends and family worried and prayed with us.  A member of my parents’ Bible study delivered a huge meal to their house that morning, thoughtfully relieving them of kitchenly duties.  As I was heading to meet mom at the nursing home, my Mother-in-law called to check in.  I tearfully expressed my irritation over the whole awful situation.  She patiently listened and eventually told me about her dad’s last days.  She, along with her sisters and mother, took turns at her father’s side.  Moistening his mouth with a sponge, reading, singing hymns, talking, crying.  Then she said, “Maybe this is hindsight speaking, but even in the midst of the waiting we saw evidence of God’s grace.”  I balked at that statement and immediately thought, “It MUST be hindsight because I haven’t noticed Jesus in this at all.”  The book on that subject was closed in my mind.  So accompanied by this snarky attitude and my dragging feet, I set off for the nursing home.

Mom and I sat with Grandma that day, mostly chatting with each other and switching off sitting beside her in bed.  We got there later than expected (obviously), so some nurses had to interrupt us in order to do their medical routine with her.  We walked out of the room while they checked her over, inspected tubes, and changed her position in the bed.  As they moved her, I heard one of the nurses say, “Well hello, beautiful eyes!”  Mom and I rushed back in to find Grandma alert for the first time in days.  Her eyes, which had been milky and vacant, were clear and green- mirror images of mine and mom’s eagerly staring back at her.  Tears streaming down our cheeks, we both leaned in from opposite sides of the bed and grabbed her hands.  I said, “Grandma, it’s Laura.  I love you.”  Garbled and slowly, she said, “Lau…..ra.  I. Love. You.”  My heart exploded with joy and sadness.  We talked to her and gave her small drinks of water until she fell back asleep.  I left to pick Elijah up from school and 2 hours later she was gone.

My Mother-in-law was right, although I couldn’t see it in the moment.  There were these jewels, windows of complete grace and clarity, strewn along the stony path of waiting and grief.  That Wednesday afternoon I got unintentionally well timed calls from my best friends, immediately before and after learning the news about Grandma- effectively sandwiching the pain between their love.  That’s Jesus for you.  After contacting the funeral parlor and finishing everything at the nursing home, our exhausted family gathered for dinner at my parents’ house, devouring the very meal that had been dropped off that morning.  Those tiny details were often what blessed me most; proof that the supernatural can reside even in the sharing of food, in the words of our friends.  When I was nearly delirious during hours of receiving visitors at Grandma’s viewing, I took a quiet second to walk over and take one last peek at her.  At the ends of her folded hands, those crazy, sparkly maroon fingernails peeked back up at me.  Grace is sneaky like that, it catches you unawares.

And the funeral.  It was perhaps one of the most difficult days I’ve ever experienced, for reasons other than what you’d imagine.  My mom, uncle, and I all spoke that day.  Here are the few, insufficient words I managed to choke out in Grandma’s eulogy:

If you are here today, it’s because you were lucky enough to know my Grandma, Louise.  And if you knew her for any amount of time, you quickly learned what a vivacious, outspoken person she was.  You never had to guess what she was thinking.   Now- speaking your mind like this can sometimes be considered a bad quality, depending on the viewpoint or opinion expressed.  But as far as Grandma was concerned, the issue she held the strongest stance on was her family.  If you ever tried to get her to STOP talking about her great grandkids once she got started, you understand what I mean.  She loved family more than anything.

My husband, son, and I are in the process of adopting a little girl from Ethiopia.  And our extended family has been nothing but supportive, especially the older generation.  Grandma often asked me about the adoption, mostly because I think she was eager to add another girl to her collection of great grandchildren.  My favorite story regarding this happened one Sunday over a family meal at my parents’ house.  Mom and I were preparing lunch, while Grandma relaxed in a chair close by.   I was telling mom our frustrations over the Ethiopian adoption process lengthening, leaving families with longer wait times separating them from their children.  From across the room, a voice piped up, “How much longer do you have to wait?”  I said, “Probably 3 more years, Grandma.”  To which my 96 year old Grandma irritably replied, “3 YEARS?!?  That’s ridiculous!  You aren’t getting any younger!”  I couldn’t help but laugh, wondering if I was the pot or kettle in this situation.

For the past year and a half, I have spent a few hours almost every Tuesday with my Grandma.  Which is why tomorrow will be hard for me.  At first I spent this time with her upon my family’s request, just checking in and helping around her condo.  But I grew to treasure our Tuesday hours together.  We would play games and do small chores.  I would try (and often fail) to get her to take walks with me to her mailbox.  The most rewarding thing we did though was writing letters.  Well really she dictated and I wrote because her handwriting was pretty horrible.  We would send birthday cards and just because cards to relatives both near and far.  She LOVED receiving their replies.  My favorite part about this process was seeing what information she chose to relay to her family members--especially the ones she hadn’t seen for awhile.  The things I found myself repeating in letter after letter were about her children, how proud and happy she was to see them grow up and remain so close with one another.  She bragged about the accomplishments of her grandchildren; and she, of course, perseverated on the great grandkids.  Her family was what truly made her heart sing.

I look around today and think, we love...we are able to love because we were loved first.  The Scriptures say as much in 1 John 4:10 & 11: “This is real love—not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as a sacrifice to take away our sins...since God loved us that much, we surely ought to love each other.”  In a similar way, Grandma prioritized her family above all else and that has carried on to each generation.  I cannot wait to tell my daughter about the Grandmother who was so anxious to meet her.  She wasn’t a perfect person, but she lived abundantly and loved well.  I’m so blessed that I had the privilege to call her mine.

After the service, one of my relatives from Lancaster (My Granddad came from a family of 14 children in Lancaster, so I’m pretty much related to everyone in that town) approached me.  She took off her beautiful necklace and placed it in my hands.  Then she said, “This is the Ethiopian Orthodox cross.  A couple from Ethiopia visited our home and gave it to me as a gift.  I’d love for you to have it, for it to stay within the family.  Especially as it would be meaningful to you.”  I was speechless.  I pressed the cross to my heart and finally croaked out a tiny “Thank you.”  In my defense, the day’s events had been brutal.  Members of my family had witnessed an unexpected, devastating tragedy following the funeral service.  It cast a shadow over Grandma’s burial and the rest of the day; we were in shock.  Then for this relative to give me something so overtly religious, it was like my brain couldn’t process it.  Because Jesus was tangibly displaying his presence in the midst of our pain.  And when that long day was finally over and we returned home, I had a letter waiting for me.  My dear friend, Tracey, had sent a little note with a few Scriptures included.  The first one I read (2 Corinthians 4:7-10) struck me right to the core:  “But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.  We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.  We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body.”  Unless she has psychic abilities she hasn’t informed us about, Tracey couldn’t possibly have known how desperately I needed those inspired words on that Monday night.  They were water to my thirsty spirit, bread for my hungry heart.  Impossibly and consistently, Jesus continued to show Himself in the small things, carrying us (at times dragging us) through.

The day's evidence of Jesus showing off.

The excruciating pain of waiting is not unfamiliar to our family.  Grandma’s last days and what followed after encapsulated this on a small scale.  Total heartache with rays of hope and help breaking through the clouds.  In fact, it bears a striking resemblance to our adoption process.  I’ve been pondering this ever since Grandma’s funeral.  And what I keep coming back to is one of my favorite verses, Revelation 21:5a, “The One sitting on the throne said, ‘See, I am making all things new!’”  I love His use of “ALL” in this verse.  Jesus didn’t say, ‘See, I am making all uncomplicated and tidy things new!”  He said, “I am making the messiest, most destructive and discouraging things new!”  EVERYTHING can be made new, can be redeemed through our precious Savior.  Even me.  Even you.  Waiting, like forgiveness and prayer, is a transforming process.  Sometimes the transforming isn’t necessarily happening within our circumstances (where we’d prefer for it to happen), it is happening within US.  But we aren’t abandoned on this journey or expected to renew ourselves, the Lord is beside us-matching our stride the entire way.  At times He quietly works behind the scenes.  Other days He arrives with a bang: An unexpected meal or visit, the gentle words of a friend, an exquisitely timed gift.  Then incredibly, somehow, step by step and day by day, you reach the trail’s end of your circumstance.  Finally you can turn around and take it all in.  From this vantage point, it becomes easier to spot the gems half buried under your gravelly route, the wildflowers springing up through the weeds.  It can either be a stark or breathtaking view, depending on your perspective.  But I guarantee that you are stronger for having walked this road.  You emerge as if from a chrysalis: Different, made new.