Tears streaming down my face, I read my grandma’s obituary this morning. She passed away May 21st, at the age of 86. One of the last cognizant moments she had was telling my mom she remembered it was my birthday, and to tell me she loved me. Oh, how that made me feel loved, to the point of crying.
Besides my parents, and the affects of my aunt’s death many years ago, she has been the most influential individual in my life. It was a quiet influence though. Nothing that she told me or articulated verbally, but things I inherited, or picked up on. My love for books. My love for politics. I’ve always wanted to get my Master’s degree because of her. She was a pioneer, a feminist, getting that Master’s in library science when not many women even ventured to go to college. I admired her intelligence. Her vocabulary. She pieced together quilts- and I think of her as an artist. She was the one who told me around age of ten, while sitting my aunt’s kitchen table in Arizona, that she had wished she had kept a journal of the everyday, ordinary things in life, and thus I began writing nearly everyday, about ideas and thoughts and dreams and desires. It’s because of her I’ve always wanted to put it in book form, and now, maybe more than ever I am motivated.
Two weeks ago, while I watched her lie on her death bed, I thought about how we are all waiting for something. We are all waiting to live or to find a career or find the love of our life or retire or die. She was waiting to die; I’m sure wanting, trying, to let go of life on this earth. And while she was letting go of life, we were trying to let go of her. We are always letting go of something. Letting go of our flesh, desires, the things we want, for the things God wants, and has for us.
It’s hard to die, or to watch someone die. It’s hard to live- to give up the flesh (Luke 9:23-25). It’s hard to wait. It’s hard to let go.
Then again, we are called to do hard things.