Don’t Do This to Mom and Dad
On Thursday, we had services for my grandmother. We called her “Nanny.” Funny, that even amongst family members, people can have different names for a grandmother. My aunt, Karen (her daughter) calls her “Nanna” when referring to her in conversation with us grandkids. Karen is a sweet woman. I wish I knew her better than I do. She has two lovely boys and a kind, gentle husband who I can tell loves her very much, who I like, but I only see them once or twice a year. This year will be one of the “2x” years, because of the funeral. Death shouldn’t be the only thing that brings us together; we will see them over Christmas. It’s a shame that the two events have so closely coincided.
I was dreading Thursday, I’ll admit it. Who wouldn’t? I don’t enjoy the business of death anymore than the rest of you. On the other hand, my grandmother, as was pointed out in the memorial service, had been trapped inside what had become the prison of her mind and body over the past several years, due to Alzheimer’s. Had I any personal assurance that she had indeed trusted Christ as her Savior, her death would have honestly been a time of rejoicing. I hope that my death is a cause of rejoicing amongst my fellow believers, particularly if I am in pain; because I know that in death I will be born into ultimate Life, and be with my King, my Savior, and my God! Don’t cry for me, unless it be tears of joy, for I will be free, and only waiting for you.
But where is joy in the death of one for whom one has no such assurance? And what good is it in gathering around to remember, to deliver platitudes and false hope? It seemed a sham to me, and I felt guilty about this; it also made me think harder about the needs of the dieing around me. Death is important; we all face it – perhaps sooner than later. And Eternity is a long, long time.
Did I mention that Nanny and I – or Nanny and any of us – were never especially close? I barely knew the woman. My emotions were tied completely to the anguish I felt at knowing that a woman I ought to have loved and honored and ministered to might be in Hell, and that was all. There was honestly no personal loss of relationship, for no real relationship existed. I do have some memories of her: she used to visit on Thursday evenings, ironically, back when I was very young. She would bring us Cabbage Patch kids and coloring books. Sometimes paper dolls. At her house, she had a cabinet full of puzzles, one of which was made of 3-D red plastic pieces that had to be arranged into a cube on a black tray. There were those bright orange, painted Swedish horses on a shelf somewhere. My sister has them, now. There was giant white wicker furniture in a sunroom, or on a porch. I’m not sure which. It was so big that I felt like the size of throw pillow nestled in its corner. But I was very small when we used to visit, and I still remember being a little afraid each time we went there.
But no memories of real relationship. And no memories of true christianity in association with her. She wasn’t antichrist, either. I perceived her as spiritually neutral. But then, I never asked, or cared to. By the time I was old enough to understand biblical Christianity myself, we’d all lost touch, and only reunitied once she was too far gone to understand much of anything anymore.
So I was surprised at the confident speech of secure hope that my mother’s pastor delivered at the memorial service. He didn’t know her any better than I did, but he seemed assured, based on what my mother had told him, that Dorothy Danielson indeed knew the Lord. He related specifics. That she used to walk to church when she was young, because there was often no one to take her. That she had visited our church when we kids put on programs, and was thrilled with the fact that we were learning the Bible. “Any church that teaches the Bible is the church for me,” she had said. Did she have a church life in her adult years? More imprtantly, did she have a real relationship with the Lord through Jesus Christ? My mother, of whose relationship with the Lord I am secure, is assured of this hope. My father, who I know does understand the Bible and salvation, also seems truly confident of this hope. That explains his serenity over the past week, and for his sake, I am particularly glad. And I find no reason to be pessimistic. Perhaps I’ll never feel certain, but this might be attributed to my simply not knowing her well enough to have such personal confidence. The stories that were shared at the memorial service were news to me, but I’ve no reason to disbelieve them.
I didn’t expect Thursday to be a hope-filled day. I didn’t expect peace, or ease, or happiness. But the memorial was truly lovely; it was a time of fellowship and family and food. The idea that I might meet Nanny in Heaven someday, where there is no Alzheimer’s or familial disfunction, where I might have a real relationship with her, is an unexpected gift. And while I do and ought to feel guilty for not making more of an effort for the Lord’s sake to honor and minister to her while she was alive, it is easier to accept the Lord’s forgiveness now and move on, knowing there is hope that she is better off now than she ever was here on earth. Second chances are a beautiful thing, and they abound in the Christian life. There are other stories I could share, but this post is long enough as it is.
But one last thing. We had a short interment. No drawn-out burial service. Literally only a few minutes of gathering around her grave site and saying a short prayer. My tender-hearted little sister, Amy, came with us and was in tears. She knew less of my grandmother than I did. In the car on the way home, I asked her if she was okay. She said that all she could think of were all of the Christmases when my mother asked if anyone wanted to go visit Nanny at the Alzheimer’s center, and Amy would say no because she was too scared. I comforted her as I could. “The important thing that we take from this,” I said, “is that we don’t let that happen with Mom and Dad.” And it’s true. That’s the last thing I’d want to do. No matter where we know our parents are going when they die, they deserve, no matter what they’ve done or failed to do in their lives, to be part of ours until the end.
I wish you all a hope-filled week. Thanks for reading.