Saturday, June 9, 2018

Celebration of Life

In late February my maternal grandmother passed away.  At 97 years old she was my final living grandparent. On that day I wrote this post to share what it meant to see that last grandparent leave my life.  Today, three and a half months later, a memorial service - a "Celebration of Life" - was held in her honor.  Yes, yes - it took nearly four months to get a funeral put together for her; she was a procrastinator in life and was very generous with sharing that genetic trait with her five children.  My mom asked me to speak, to reflect, on Grandma Margaret at today's service.  So I gathered input from my cousins and put together the following words to honor a woman who simply lived her life in a way that was nothing short of remarkable.

Margaret's Angels - my youngest sister Marni, Grandma Margaret, and oldest younger sister Megan with a Charlie's Angels pose while at Cousin Heather's wedding.

She stood at the dining room window, watching night lift itself away on dawn's first hints of light.  Those hints became whispers, the whispers begat colors, and still, she stood.  Now immersed in the silence of light she could gather the scene before her - her yard, the road, the field and trees beyond.  To most eyes this view was unchanging from day to day, but not to hers.  She was a noticer, a see-er of that which eludes the attention of most.  While we might see the branch that had broken in last night's winds or an unfamiliar bird at the feeder, she noted the missing leaves from the unbroken branches, the damaged tail feathers on that bird.  Most often she took pause at how the colors danced with the clouds in morning's earliest song, cherishing each dance as a gift from her God, while giving thanks for the day ahead and the people who would fill it.  And still, she stood.

The timing of this scene - the day, the season, the year - mattered not; she was shaped over time, but time did not define her.  Nor was this woman defined by the jobs she held - postal worker, farmer, craft shop retailer - or the roles she played - mom, wife, neighbor, grandma - because what she brought to each of them was stronger than the forces they applied to her.  By all outward appearances this woman lived what many would see as a "simple life", so it might seem a small task, defining someone who spent all but her very last year in the same tiny town, most of her previous years in the same small house, many of her mornings watching the same scene unfold.  However, the great flaw of our current culture is the importance we place on those outward appearances, and in doing so we miss opportunities to find out who people really are until they have misled us, hurt us, left us.

But this woman never misled or hurt others, and while it's true she did live a simple life it was a life lived with contented strength, with peaceful kindness, with quiet empathy, and with unbiased love.  More importantly none of those traits were hidden, which is why defining this woman need not, should not, be done with titles or roles or relationships or first glances - the woman who stood at that window was the woman who stood in the post office, and the woman who sent her children out into the world was the woman who welcomed the world into her home.  She was who she was regardless of setting or company.  Who among us can claim such strength?

To reflect more on who she was we turn to her grandchildren.  Her children knew her longer, of course, but children see their parents over years of transition for both parties; a child's ability to perceive is developing as a parent is finding his or her way through life.  The result?  A muddled description of who someone was, who someone is, with a lot of foggy perceptions in between.  Grandkids, though, arrive in time to meet the mostly-finished product of life's journey - grandpa or grandma has settled in to the person they were meant to be.  And, truth be told, parents eventually want their kids out while grandparents are very, very eager to welcome grandkids in.  That feeling of being welcomed?  It rang clear in thoughts spoken aloud by her grandchildren:

"She always made me feel like a part of the conversation, even when I was really young."  "She had a giving heart, an open heart."  "She was so open minded and accepting."

 Not only did she welcome, she listened:

"I tilt my head and nod when I listen, just like she did, because she was really good at looking like she was listening.  Not that she wasn't listening, it's just that she was so good at looking like she understood me."

She was tough:

"When I think of Grandma I see the leader of this unique, massive family, showing strength through it all."  "My God, she put up with Grandpa all those years!"

But never missed a chance to show how much she cared for others:

"She always encouraged me to never give up, try new things, keep learning, and strive to get better."  "She knew how everybody in the family was doing with school or jobs or sports, and it made me feel good that Grandma cared how I was doing."  "She always had newspaper clippings of something good I had done."  "She knew I was donating plasma for extra money in college, so she sent me $5 and asked that I not do that because she was worried about me.  But the plasma got me $50, so...."

And tying all those thoughts together - food and the kitchen table.  Every response to the question "What do you remember about grandma?" made some note of sitting at the kitchen table enjoying whatever treats she and grandpa had "whipped up".  That kitchen table hosted Christmases, Thanksgivings, deer hunting strategy sessions, and Tuesday coffee for the neighborhood.  And always there was food, and always she was at the table, listening, observing, sharing when necessary, content to let others have their say.  "Food and hugs and warmth and contentedness" perhaps best sums up who this woman was through the eyes of her grandchildren, and would most likely be agreed upon by others who truly knew her as well.  Now, back to that window....

A new day before her could have meant a variety of tasks around the home - weeds in the garden, dirty clothes in the hamper, berries in the fridge - or perhaps it was a day away at work, at a ballgame, or to share time with family or friends.  Unlike her, those activities were defined by day or season or year, and for a woman whose life appeared so simple the breadth of possibilities for any one of her days cannot be stated simply at all.  There was a constant, however, in her day to day life we would be remiss to leave unmentioned - her love of the written word.  She read and she wrote, and she wrote while she read.  She journaled what she saw out that window, wrote notation of what she learned from reading each day.  Every gift she received was noted, every journey she took documented.  Every card she sent carried a message, every message scripted with care in its look and its meaning.  This writing she did, this writing she gave us, provides a confluence of tactile history with our inconsistent memories of her, neither of which is more or less true than the other.  For a woman who held no degrees of higher learning the depth of her knowledge was limited only by the books she had yet to read.  As the rest of us struggle to understand the present or recall the past, her ability to do both was carried to the end on a sea of written words she consumed and produced every single day.

Until she no longer did.  Her journey ended the way so many of her days began - in peace, in tranquility, with family close at hand.  We celebrate her life today with happy memories tainted by heavy hearts, though were she here she would advise us to focus on the happy while empathizing with our need to feel heavy.  As we move forward without her we would do well to carry ourselves as she did - with the knowledge of when to listen and when to listen even more, with quiet stoicism in the face of turmoil, with an open mind and an even more open heart, with a thirst for learning and true understanding.  She would brush aside such praise with an "Oh, pshaw", but women like her are what made the world great once; if we want a return to such status it will be on the backs of those who can live like she did.

The colors of each morning still dance with the clouds, the fields and trees still lie beyond the window where she stood.  She was the backbone of her family, a pillar in her community, a kind and gentle soul in a world sorely lacking both.  Whether you called her "Mom", "Grandma", or "Margaret", you miss her today just like you will miss her tomorrow and the days beyond.  But if you fill those days with lessons learned from the life she lived you'll do far more than simply miss her - you'll honor her.  Nothing would make her more proud.

Grandma Margaret surrounded by three great-granddaughters.

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