My grandma’s name was Grace. As inappropriate as that “was” looks, it is,
in fact, in the right tense: my Grandma died last week. In a couple of brief moments, a sudden,
massive stroke decimated the lovely mind that enriched so many lives for 79
years. Grandpa found her unconscious in
the bathroom of the home in which they’ve lived since Mom was girl. She was transported by ambulance to the local
hospital in Rock Valley and airlifted to a larger hospital in Sioux Falls, but
she never regained consciousness. Around
2:00 PM the following day, Wednesday, February 25, loving, industrious Grandma slipped
out of this world and into glory. “Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith
the Spirit, that they may rest from their labours; and their works do follow
them” (Rev. 14:13).
For most of the people who knew my grandparents, Grandpa probably
comes to mind before Grandma. It seems
nearly everyone knows wiry, feisty Elmer.
But behind Elmer for the past
56 years has been sweet and steady Grace.
“I’m cryin’,” Grandpa said countless times over the weekend. “But I’m not cryin’ for her, because I know
that all of her troubles are over. I’m
cryin’ for myself, because it seems as if all of my troubles have just
begun.” (Note here, to those of us who are married. How often aren’t we tempted to view our
spouse as the source of many a problem?
Grandpa saw Grandma as the answer to all of his. She was indeed his helper, perfectly suited
to him. A lady at Grandma’s visitation
put it well: “I couldn’t say ‘Elmer’ without saying ‘Grace.’”)
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| On our wedding day, 9.27.03. |
When I started writing this, my husband and I and our children were
winding through the snow-sprinkled hills of south-central South Dakota on the
way to Grandma’s funeral. We left in a
whirlwind of exhaustion, hurriedly-made lesson plans, dirty laundry, and an
upturned house. Like Grandma’s death,
our hasty departure made me consider the fleeting nature of our lives. I’m a person who likes to tie up all the
loose ends before I leave home. But God
knows better than we which ends must be tied, and which ends can be left
undone. And though we have no time to
stop for death, sometimes he kindly stops for us – or for one we love – without
any warning.
I didn’t have time before we left to page through my childhood photo
album, though I longed to do so. I know,
though, that I wouldn’t find many photos of Grandma there. She was the kind of lady who was full of good
works, yet she never drew attention to herself.
I wanted to see the pictures of the dresses that she made for me.
My birthday falls 10 days before Christmas. When I was a child, the Christmas program was
always held on Christmas Eve. Until I
turned 14, my Grandma sewed me a dress for every birthday, just in time for the
program. I loved the Christmas program,
and I can still remember how my heart would pound as I sprang down the
red-and-black carpeted stairs to the church basement, excited to show my classmates
my new dress, reveling in those final moments of anticipation before the
processional began.
Even without
opening my photo album, I’m pretty sure I can remember in order the dresses
that Grandma made. Among them are the
red dress that I wore when Dad took my one-year pictures. The blue dress with the wide, round collar
and puffed sleeves. My favorite: the
brown dress with its sprinkling of tiny orange flowers. The elegant blue velvet dress that took my
breath away (but itched like crazy under the arms and at the waist.) The dusty mauve dress with the bow at the
neck. The red-and-black paisley print
dress with the peplum skirt, which I also wore to Uncle Brent and Aunt Audrey’s
wedding, and the burgundy plaid jumper that I wore as a new teen. Those dresses are the fruit of hours’ worth
of cutting and sewing. To me, they are
evidence of Grandma’s patient, generous, selfless nature.
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| 6th birthday. (Hi, Bethany. :-) |
So were the Sunday evenings that we, her children and grandchildren,
enjoyed for years. I remember her noisy,
cousin-crowded kitchen, and I remember eagerly graduating to a tray and the
adult-filled living room at age 10.
Grandma never failed to deliver a feast.
My favorite was her zucchini bread, and she knew it. Others relished her homemade dill pickles,
one-of-a-kind tavern, and delectable desserts.
In the summer we’d mob the raspberry bushes that lined her garden fence
and the mulberry tree outside the kitchen window. We’d go home with stained fingers and
mulberries imbedded in the soles of our shoes.
How many delightful hours we spent under the mechanical throbbing of
Grandpa and Grandma’s towering, 100-foot tall windmill!
We “fished” off the brick front steps with branches from the weeping
willow as cars swept around the curve into the Valley. We set up house in Grandma’s retired chicken
coop. We played kick-the-can in the yard
after the sun set. In the winter we’d
play school in the basement room, which Grandpa and Grandma had furnished with
a 6-foot tall chalkboard and rows of old school desks. We bickered over Bonnie, the big doll with
the butchered hair, and the Indian brave who was just the right size to be
Barbie’s groom. We hated to leave Grandma’s
house as much we loved to come. She knew
that, so she was always ready with her candy jar to sweeten our ride home.
It was painful for me to move to Colorado. We left behind my dear family and the church
and school into which my grandparents (and parents) poured abundant time. Abundant money. Abundant children and grandchildren. Abundant hot lunches (the last of which they served
together just last month). I wept
knowing that when they attended school chapels and programs, my children would
not be among those on the front steps.
But I also cherish the more-recent memories of the dinners that
Grandpa and Grandma would serve B.J. and I and our children when we returned to
Northwest Iowa to visit. Grandma would
serve us large dinners – fish and rice, or roast beef and potatoes – and she
never forgot Schwan’s ice cream for dessert.
On the way back to Dad and Mom’s after one of those meals, Leah said,
“That was like a Sunday dinner, wasn’t it, Mom?
I guess she must really love us!”
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| With newborn Marie, 8.13.08. |
I also treasure the memory of the devotions that followed those noon
meals. For years Grandpa and Grandma
have faithfully read the devotionals from the Beacon Lights. Grandpa would
read the Bible passage, his voice rising and falling, his stutter temporarily
absent. Grandma would answer with the
corresponding mediation before leading us in singing the assigned Psalter
number, carrying the tune with her clear, sweet alto voice.
“We always sang the Psalter numbers,” Grandpa said to me last weekend.
“I know,” I smiled in reply.
“I don’t mean to brag,” he continued, “but we didn’t sound too
bad.” I smiled again and voiced my
agreement as tears flooded my eyes.
Grandpa looked down at his hands, folded on his lap.
“Those days are over,” he said, haltingly, and the tears spilled
over.
When I agreed to write the Beacon
Lights devotionals several months ago, the editor of the magazine encourage
me to remember my “primary audience”: young people, teenagers. I got the point, but in my mind, my primary
audience was composed of two gray-headed saints, sitting together at the big,
oval table in the sunny kitchen where I’d spent many happy hours. Writing the devotionals was my way of putting
my kids on the church steps. Of
traveling across the miles to join them for their noon meal. Of making up for the Thanksgiving dinners and
Sunday evenings I’ve missed. Of
demonstrating that I have not neglected their work on behalf of God’s kingdom:
my work is simply on a different part of the Building.
Now my primary audience is an audience of one. A lonely man, with a flat, bald head and
thick mustache. I write to tell him that
he is not alone, that grace will never forsake him.
Grandpa and Grandma would always stand at the window when we left,
waving wildly until we rounded the curve and drove out of sight. As B.J. and I drove off the yard last Saturday,
Grandpa stood in the kitchen by himself, facing the counter, his hands at his
sides. I waved until he was out of
sight.
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| "I couldn't say 'Elmer' without saying 'Grace'!" |
Those of us who loved Grandma remember her not only for the things she
did – the dresses, Sunday lunches, sweet corn, applesauce, countless birthday
cards and letters – but for what she didn’t do.
I cannot ever remember seeing my Grandma angry, or even agitated. The only time I ever heard her raise her
voice was when she’d holler across the yard for Grandpa: “Elmer!” My Grandma
was aptly named. Grace, personified.
No, she wasn’t perfect. I can’t
bring to mind any of her faults, but I am, after all, one of her many
daughters. She fought the same sinful
nature against which I battle. But she
believed and trusted in God’s sovereign grace.
His amazing grace. The grace that
found us and saved us. The grace that
carries us and leads us Home.
The day is coming when my grandma’s body will be raised from the grave
in which it was laid this week. On that
day she will be given a new dress. A
dress of pure, white linen. Not a dress
she sewed, but a spotless garment prepared for her by the hands that bear the
imprint of nails. He has a dress for me,
too. On that day, we’ll don our new
dresses, hearts pounding, and enter the place where no good thing will be
withheld from them who have walked uprightly.
There will be no more strokes there, nor more suffering, and no more
sadness. I’m looking forward to that
day. And Grandma awaits it, too, with
her soul in perfection. Grace, in glory.
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| Photo by Van Maanen's. |
For another lovely post about Grandma, see my sister Erin's blog here.
