Grace, in Glory

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.’”) 

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. 

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!” 

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.

"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. 

Photo by Van Maanen's.

For another lovely post about Grandma, see my sister Erin's blog here.