At eighty you were still strong enough to mow the church
lawn; at eighty-five you kept the smile on your warm face, jovial and generous
as Santa Claus. After all, it was your handwriting every year: Dear Katie and Michael, Thank you for the
milk and cookies. Ho ho ho. You sat in your chair holding your “King of the
Remote” pillow and patted us our heads when we performed our original plays for
you. Michael was your little buddy; I, your soccer star.
I didn’t miss you so much, being too young to know you. I read
from Matthew at your memorial service and watched them place your ashes in a
box in the sanctuary wall, to remain in God’s house. Eleven years old, I joined
in extolling with the multitudes your faithfulness to God and community. Then
Michael and I fashioned Halloween costumes from your closet (“old man” and “old
woman”) and went trick-or-treating in your neighborhood.
The next summer at camp, my friend Kim’s grandma died, and
everyone started crying about their own losses. I lay in my bed for an hour at
rest period, working myself into tears over you because I wanted to be part of
the crowd, to be comforted. After rest period one girl came and asked me what
was wrong. I’m sorry I used you.
Grandma tells me stories over sandwiches at Panera now,
stories of college during World War II or the racial sentiments in 1920s
small-town Nebraska.
I’d like to eat a sandwich with you, to learn what was beneath your accepting
smile. I’d like to know more about the faith at the source of the prayer you
always spoke before Grandma’s roast beef dinner--“Bless these gifts to us and us to Thy service, and may we ever be
mindful of the blessings Thou has bestowed upon us.” Most of all, I’d like
to play for you a little Debussy.
Thank you for this!
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