One Year Later: Still Missing You

We recently got the floor in our back room and kitchen redone.  If you are at all familiar with the horrific 70’s carpet and vinyl that once lay there, you can agree that this was nothing short of a miraculous rebirth.  In moving our furniture out of these rooms for the project to happen, we rediscovered many forgotten things, purged many unnecessary things, and generally attempted to bring order to the chaos of Elijah’s desktop.

As Elijah and I worked together on Operation Clean Desk (Hahaha, OCD for short), we ended up pitching a lot of old school work, art projects, and other random junk.  I never knew how many papers a child could accumulate until Elijah started school.  And he, like his Daddy, is more apt to attach sentiment to things.  On the other hand, I am more inclined to empty an entire room’s contents into a dumpster, no questions asked.  So E was slowly picking up each item from his desk and assessing its value, sending unsympathetic me into the 7th circle of purging hell.  I was ready to drag our trash can over, sweep the desktop debris into it, then pull a Pilate and wash my hands of the whole thing.

Then he held up a single dried rose.  One he’d plucked from the top of his Great Grandma’s casket.

“Mama, I could never get rid of this.”  My heart sunk.  “No, my Love.  I would never want you to.”  He looked at me with the saddest eyes, “Sometimes I wish I could plant it in the ground and it would come back to life.”  Now I was getting choked up, “Me too, Buddy.”

We planted my Grandma in the ground one year ago.  Today is the anniversary of her passing.

Strangely, the world kept going.  Our family did small things to honor her: Lit a candle at Thanksgiving, visited her and Granddad’s grave at Christmas.  But for me, the holiday milestones weren’t the hardest.  I grieved most on Tuesdays, my designated day to be with her.  The first Tuesdays after her death were excruciatingly painful, each one a knife to the chest.  My weekly reminder: “She’s not here.  She’s not here.”

My cousin Rachel and I just had a conversation about how strange grief is, how it hangs around.  I mean, our Grandma was 97; she lived a long, full life.  She is in a better place.  We should be over it by now.  “Plus,” I said, “She and I bickered nearly every time we saw each other.  She wasn’t exactly an angel of light.  Really, she could be quite difficult.”  And that’s the truth, although not all of it.  She was also kind and loving.  Lit up from within when talking about her great grandkids, even my future daughter.  She was a person- with all the good, the bad, and the ugly that personhood entails.  And she left a space unable to be filled by anyone else.

Several months ago, I was racked with serious jealousy issues.  People were having babies without consulting me first (Among them, my cousin Jeff and wife Sarah welcomed their 3rd son, Everett Jacob.  Named after our Grandfather, Everett was the first great grandson who didn’t get to meet his Grandma Bare).  Others were enjoying success elsewhere:  Socially, in jobs, through their crafty diversions.  Comparatively, I felt like a failure.  While I KNEW I was measuring meaning by all the wrong things, I was mentally trapped in envy’s rabbit hole.  I found it hard to pray.  That night I stood in my closet (Very Biblical) and simply said, “God, I know my priorities are crap.  I need help.”  After going to sleep that evening, I had one of the most vivid dreams I’ve ever experienced:

Our family, on the Bare side, was gathering to celebrate the birth of our newest member: Everett.  Much to my surprise, my Grandma was there. But her when she was healthy and younger, not as she was before she passed. However I realized quickly that I was the only one who saw her. The family crowded together in a large room to congratulate the new parents; I sat down next to my Grandma and took her hand. "Grandma," I whispered, "Why are you here?" She looked beyond me to the parents holding their little bundle and said, "I just HAD to see that baby!"

I woke up, puffy eyed with wet cheeks, incapable of stopping my tears.  After somewhat pulling myself together, I ran downstairs to our computer and typed the above description of my dream to share with Jeff and Sarah.  

Here’s what I didn’t say then: It felt real.  From the dated windsuit Grandma wore, the brick red of her hair, her crazy excitement over the baby, the unmistakable spring in her step.  THIS was the woman I remembered from my childhood.  But what on earth did that have to do ME and my problems now (Probably don’t need to mention that I’m a wee bit self-centered)?  I felt that little Jesus nudge, a whisper through my brain.  “It IS real.”

Not that my Grandma is wearing a windbreaker and leading a conga line in heaven (although, I wouldn’t put it past her!).  But she, the most important part of her being, is very much alive in a different realm.  A place free from physical pain, competitive living, daily stress and mess.  In death, she didn’t lose what made her a valued, singular person.  Instead, she found it.  She is a cherished child of God, now fully, perfectly worshiping our great Savior.  Stripped of the entanglements of this earth, she is able to completely fulfill her highest purpose.  And if that isn’t a call to “real” and better priorities, I don’t know what is.

So yes, we planted my Grandmother’s body in the ground a year ago.  I miss her still, so incredibly much.  But unlike Elijah’s rose, I am certain she isn’t gone forever.  The qualities that made her unique aren’t buried six feet under.  Her gravestone is NOT the last mark she made on the world.  And trees lining the cemetery echo this sentiment.  Autumn is beauty and loss.  We all fall, some young and brilliantly colored, some old and weathered.  The winter afterwards is inevitable to us remaining.  Barren, colorless, bleak.  But for those who believe, spring will come.  You see, Jesus ensured that death no longer gets the final word.  In fact, for my Grandma, the exact opposite was true: Her end was actually her beginning. 

“For we know that when this earthly tent we live in is taken down (that is, when we die and leave this earthly body), we will have a house in heaven, an eternal body made for us by God himself and not by human hands.  

We grow weary in our present bodies, and we long to put on our heavenly bodies like new clothing... While we live in these earthly bodies, we groan and sigh,..we want to put on our new bodies so that these dying bodies will be swallowed up by life.  

God himself has prepared us for this, and as a guarantee he has given us his Holy Spirit...For we live by believing and not by seeing. Yes, we are fully confident, and we would rather be away from these earthly bodies, for then we will be at home with the Lord.” 

 - 2 Corinthians 5:1-8