Ten years have passed this week since my last grandparent died, my mother’s mother. I never had a chance to know the other three very well. Grandma was all I had. In some ways, back in 2004 and earlier, I guess I’d always imagined she’d be around.
Growing up, we were very close to my grandmother. My mother would visit every week and I was often in tow. Not uncommon. I’d be dropped off to mow her lawn, and do chores as a youth, but our real relationship began when it was put in my own hands. The last few years of high school, when I had a license, and a car, Grandma’s was one of the top places for me to visit. I did the same yard chores, and we’d eat the same Spaghettios for lunch, but once I began driving myself there, and choosing how long to stay, she knew that I wanted to be there. We’d play cards and look out the window for birds. And we’d chat, on and on. Throughout summers, on the way to my full-time evening job at the General Cinema in her town of Framingham, Massachusetts, I would stop by, just because. During college, when I would head home for the weekend, I made it a point to visit her, not out of requirement, but out of need. She grounded me.
A Quiet Christian
Grandma was proud of me, unconditionally. She cheered me on in pursuit of all my far-flung dreams (animator, film composer, opera singer, scholar) and supported me when reality proved a bit more mundane (part-time church administrator, volunteer church singer). She would never think of challenging me on why certain aspirations had fallen by the wayside. She was non-judgmental, loving all her grandchildren with her whole heart, even as some of us drifted at times. You’d never hear her speak ill of someone behind their back.
It had been a hard decision to attend graduate school so far away, and eventually to move 250 miles away as well, but in those years, I was be sure to stop by each and every visit home. My wife became just as close in her final years. Grandma loved her unconditionally as well. There were times when some others had a strong “Who’s this intruder?” attitude, but that was never the case with Grandma. I remember so well, a day that my then-girlfriend and I drove some 13 hours through five New England states for no particular reason. The following day we both needed to race to tell Grandma all about it, and she was ecstatic for our joy. We got out a map, and showed her all the roads we took, some through regions from earlier in her life. She wanted to share that joy with us, even though she couldn’t have made the journey herself.
In short, she lived a Christian life the way I would like to.
She was a member of the Congregational Church for as many years as I was aware, and when she no longer could attend in person, a visiting team would make their way to her home, socially. A few years back, one of the greatest Christmas gifts came to me a few weeks early. I had dedicated a poinsettia in her name at my church, and a new woman approached me after the service, asking how did I know Orlena? I learned that day that this woman had been one of my grandmother’s visitors many years before, and still remembered her. This kinship has been one of the most important things that has come out of my time at Edwards Church, further reminding me that higher powers were in play when I made my way to the United Church of Christ in the first place.
But the most spectacular thing about Grandma’s religion was that she never wore it on her sleeve. She didn’t have a single trapping around the house, that I recall. The only way you’d know what was in her heart was by observing the way she lived her life. That is how I want to live. In my high school yearbook I placed an original quote next to my photo, something to the effect of intending to make everyone I know laugh. That’s the way I still try to live. For me, laughter is the way I express myself to others, and there is no greater gift to me than to receive a warm laugh from someone I’m with. This past week, I rewatched The Office Christmas Special, and found that nearly ten years after my yearbook quote, Ricky Gervais’ character, much-maligned at times, and forever justly earning eyerolls for crossing the line, expressed his philosophy in the final moments of the series, stating that he wishes to be remembered “simply as the man who put a smile on the face of everyone he met”. Part of the marvel of The Office was the manner and degree to which Brent would stick his neck out to this end, failing miserably more often than not. But in the end, his aim was true. Grandma certainly didn’t try to emulate The Office. In fact, I’m positive she would have hated it, but here we three are, two reserved congregationalists, and one evangelical atheist, living life to the same end.
The Statement That Matters
I’ve often thought of the fact that so many people in the world quibble about the most minute details of the Bible, and perhaps it’s partially related to the fact that my mind is a sieve for concentration and comprehension that for me it all comes down to one statement. Be nice. If we could all live considerate and respectful of others’ feelings, the Bible itself wouldn’t need to be a bestseller. It would all fit on a post-it note, and we’d actually have a better world in front of us. Ten Commandments, Golden Rules, whatever. Just be nice.
Grandma had a rough final few weeks. She was dying at Christmas time. It was during the period in which I lived far away, and was coming up for the holiday week anyhow. My wife and I made it to see her on Christmas Eve before we would go to my parents’ church service. I remember her hospital room so well that day. It was quiet and dark, and some Christmas lights from somewhere were reflected on the window pane. I noticed that someone had brought her the large-print Bible I had bought her many years back. I didn’t even know that it had meant much to her, but at the time, I noted that my mother was getting her all large-print books from the library, so if she wanted to read any scripture it would need to be large-print. I picked it up, and she began to speak Psalm 23 in a louder, more lucid tone than I’d previously heard on that visit. Her speaking was almost defiant. The “walk through the valley of the shadow of death” verse took on a new meaning for me, which will never be reversed. I opened up the book, since my recollection from Sunday School seemed to be lacking more than hers. It was a powerful moment. I asked her if she wanted to sleep, and she nodded peacefully. How peaceful it would’ve been to die holding my hand. I sang “Silent Night” and my wife and I moved on. That evening, a lifesaving stomach virus struck her floor, and she seemed to cleanse herself for another week or so. I can’t recall if I saw her again that week, I most certainly did, but I like to think of that moment on Christmas Eve as the last time I saw Grandma.
Slipping Through My Fingers
No sooner than we’d returned to Princeton, did we receive the call from my mother that Grandma passed away, January 3, 2005. We made the journey back up for the small funeral home memorial. I played some hymns of her choosing on a rinky-dink electric organ, and that chapter was over.
I’ve always been a hit with people that were two generations ahead of me, and in adulthood, I feel like I have established a connection to this Greatest Generation’s culture and attitudes in many ways. I came to a realization a few years back that this two-generation separation is disappearing from my life as I get older. I cling to anyone who is old enough to be my grandparent, and I know that someday there will be no more people to serve as my foster grandparents. That upsets me.
Her death affected me like nothing before or since. There were moments for months afterward where, without any warning, I would crumble in my wife’s arms sobbing. I fight back tears as I write this. Grandma was born 106 years ago. I never would’ve imagined that she’d still be with me, but still, it seems I was not ready for that loss. In a way, it’s because I know that I will never have someone in my life like her again. At my church’s weekly staff meeting the week after I got back, I updated my friends on the situation, and I told them, “I think about her all the time, but not with any sadness.” Even now, tears form, while a smile takes me away.