Yesterday morning my dad called to tell me the news that I knew was coming: Grandma Nell had passed away. Grandma made it nearly 93 years, and when we found out in February that she had cancer and it had spread, she was easily the person in the family who was most ok with her own mortality. Grandma was ready to go. She wanted to meet her savior, and be reunited with many loved ones who had gone before her.
And that was good. It helped make the process easier for most of the family, I think. I'm really thankful to have gotten to see Grandma twice between her diagnosis and her death. We had a chance to enjoy being together and to say goodbye. So when I got Dad's call on Friday, I was ok. I was sad, but ok.
And today I'm remembering Grandma. I remember first her kindness. Anyone who knew Grandma would remember first her kindness. Grandma Nell is probably the only person I've met in my life that I would classify as truly good. I know the theological implications of this label, and I use it anyway. Do you remember the passage in the Gospels (Mark 10:18) where somebody addresses Jesus as "good teacher", and Jesus asks him, "Why do you call me good? No one is good except God alone." ? Well, I'm pretty sure that if Grandma Nell had been around when Jesus walked the earth, Jesus' answer would have been a little different: "Why do you call me good? No one is good except the Father in heaven...and Nellie House is probably next in line."
In 33 years of interaction with her, I never once heard Grandma say an unkind or critical word to, or even about, anyone. Not one. It's a family joke that the closest Grandma ever came to swearing was to call a driver who had just cut her off in traffic a "dumb bunny". [author's note: I guess this comment could be considered a critical word, but as this event took place before I was born, I don't count it.]
This morning as I laid in bed and listened to the birds calling out tidings of spring to each other, I thought of Grandma. I thought of summer visits sleeping in the attic bedroom, carefully coming down the steep, narrow staircase to the smell of coffee and bacon. Of helping hang up clean laundry on the line. Of playing by the little creek in the yard and riding the two green bikes (with pedal-powered headlights!!) around Hasket Lane. Of the only time I ever saw Grandma run: when I told her Brittony said she was going to throw up in the bedroom (wow, she didn't look fast but boy-howdy could Grandma move!!).
I look at the spring flowers, announcing the promise of rebirth and renewal, and I remember the time I picked a flower out of Grandma's flowerbed to give to her. Because Grandma loved flowers- even her pre-school aged grandchildren knew that, and my 4 or 5 year-old brain didn't have any concern other than making Grandma smile. I recall being confused that Grandma wasn't as delighted as I was. She thanked me kindly, in true Grandma-fashion, and then gently explained that the flowers like to stay in the ground. If you take them out of the ground, they will die. Oops.
Today for lunch I had chicken-dumpling soup, which reminded me of my favorite Grandma Nell soup: chicken-corn-rivel. It made me sad that I didn't have a chunk of cheddar or colby cheese to slice off and eat. Grandma made a mean homemade soup, and it was usually served with cheese and crackers.
It's strange to think that I have received my final letter from her; that there will be no more trips to St. Marys for a visit; that I can't ask her any more questions about my mom's childhood; that she isn't here anymore. On the other hand, I'm really happy for her. I don't think any of us really know how heaven works, but I know it's there; and I know she's there. And I hope she's having a grand old time, with a new body that doesn't need a pacemaker or hearing aids. I hope she's enjoying catching up with her parents, siblings, friends, husband, and her youngest daughter- my mom. I hope they're telling the same old family stories and looking forward to the day when we'll all be together again. I know I am.
