One Year Ago

It's funny how, even though our minds seem built for eternity, we live with such a temporal mindset. Where we take so many wonderful things for granted. And then, in one jarring moment, when it's lost, we realize all over again how broken the world is, and how fleeting all of our pleasures are.

One year ago, I was in the RV headed up to my grandma's funeral with my family, my older brother and a cousin. With such heavy hearts, we laid her to rest in the family plot, next to ancestors and baby grandchildren gone too soon. It was the first funeral I've been to where I felt great personal loss at the goodbye. because grandmas, they're just always part of your life. Whether you know them well or not. You're part of them. They're a piece of the stability you know, and part of who you are.

My grandma, Dorthy Mae, was this amazing woman who learned the joy of contentment, even amidst trials and discomfort. She knew God's peace in a way I hope I will some day. Her home was part of me, that tiny shack she called her patchwork palace, made up of combined pieces of other shacks and homesteads, heated by a coal stove. She never seemed to mind the fact that she couldn't grow flowers in that dusty soil.

How is she a part of me? She prayed for me, I think every day. She invited me into her life, and shared this talent for writing, whther through genes or just through a mutual interest. She'd show me her publications, and tell me about the marketing. The last time I saw her, we talked about the time it takes. How it's easy to write, because that's the fun part. But marketing is a whole different ballgame. And she probably had more success than I ever will. She wrote thousands of articles for the newpaper, the Montana magazine, and senior citizens news. Her poetry is so poingnet and masterful. And while most of the world never gets to see it, I do. And I'm better for it.

I miss her all the time. Those wrinkled laugh lines and sheepish smile. The softness of her voice. Her silly jokes and the way she always found happiness amidst the dust. The baked bread. The coal dust that covered everything in her house.
The generosity and grace which came out of her content heart.
I'd give everything to be able to sit at the table and play Scrabble again, just one last time.
And I think I will, if games are a part of heaven. And there, it won't matter that she takes twenty minutes to put down a 70-point word every turn.
There, she won't have to use a walker or be in pain, or wade her way through clutter and junk, or open the window for a better breeze and wish the bugs weren't flying in. There, we'll just worship together.
I like to imagine her up there, rocking babies while she waits for the rest of us. My brother Daniel, my daughter Grace. My cousin, John, who would be 35 if he were here. I think she probably makes them soup, too, since something that delicious could only come from heaven.

Why do we miss our grandmas so much when they leave? Because they're a part of us. And her spirit of fortitude, and the joy she showed, her quiet devotion to God and her family, will always be a part of me. Save me a seat up there, Grandma.

WHY WEEPEST THOU?

By Dorothy Rustebakke

Dewdrops glistened on the bud
As Mary walked in grief,
Seeing not the quickened bough
Nor yet the bright new leaf.

But as she walked in sorrow there,
Blinded by her tears,
Her risen Lord spoke words to her
That echo through the years.

And all who grieve for loved ones lost
Find comfort even now,
Remembering the gentle voice
That asked, "Why weepest thou?"