Grandma’s Glue

I watched a generation slip into memory the other day. She was 101 years old. She’d outlived all her friends, and some of her children. Every bit of evidence I ever saw made me believe she savored every moment life blessed her with. In the end – for the last few years – she was increasingly tired, and ready to go home.

She’d lived life to its fullest, and she was tired now. While she was happy to continue to savor those little moments that life continued to give to her, she looked with increasing longing toward the next transition.

Her soul had left the wonderful vessel that was her body, but we gathered around that vessel nonetheless last weekend, and bid her goodbye. While we were sad that we’d not have her smiling face with us now, we continued to rejoice at the smile that her soul left within the heart of each of us.

It meant a lot to me that I could help to carry the casket within which the vessel that was my grandmother would now rest. The preacher said his words, and we all filed in a line past the crypt within which will rest the vessel that was my grandmother. She’ll take her place where she’d want to be – beside the vessel that was her husband and my grandfather. Her casket waited – they would put it into the crypt after we all left.

I waited at the end of the line, not wanting to feel rushed as we walked past the crypt. It was a tiny and quiet little moment standing there with my brother and sister, in that quiet place, after everyone else had left. We knew we’d walk away soon, and leave behind the deep and penetrating quiet. I took in a breath, pulling the quiet deeply into myself, and let in out slowly, hoping to leave behind a tiny shred of the love I hold for her, hoping it would rest with her through the years.

We left the cemetery, and drove past the house where she’d lived. The house where she raised her children. The house where she raised her grandchildren. We drove past the old house several times, savoring the memories with each pass. Memories of popsicles in the freezer on the back porch, memories of a fresh sweet corn in the summer, and a chicken coop converted to a garage. Memories of warm summer evenings under a giant willow tree in the back yard. Memories of covert bicycle rides down the gravel road to the river for a cool swim on a hot summer day.

The house has belonged to someone else for years now, and it’s a lot less neat and tidy than it used to be. There’s probably not a freezer on the back porch any longer – or at least not one with homemade popsicles. The willow tree was taken down many years ago. The road is paved in asphalt now, and the place we used to swim in the river is silted-in.

But none of that stopped the wonderful memories from wrapping themselves around me, and filling my heart with the warm love that Grandma leaves behind with us.

We talked about whether we’d ever be back to look at that old house again, or to visit with family that we’ve not seen in years. One last time, Grandma had brought us together to say goodbye to her, and while I desperately want to believe that we will, there’s a part of me that wonders if we’ll ever come together again, now that the glue that bound us has moved along.

Makes me stop and think. Where am I the glue? Where is it that I hold people together? In this world where the media and the hate mongers work overtime to push us apart and convince us that “the other guy” is evil, it’s increasingly important for more of us to live the sort of life that Grandma lived, where we work to pull people together rather than pushing them apart.

Amen.

Author: Neil Hanson

Neil administers this site and manages content. View all posts by Neil Hanson