Grandma's Passing

My grandmother slipped behind the veil last week. Slow, groggy, feeling a little too tired, she laid down for a ten-minute nap and woke in eternity. My parents said she went with a smile on her face. She was 95. As my friend Karen said this morning, "weddings, births, and funerals tend to turn people toward reflection." Yesterday, a few handfuls of celebrants gathered at Moore's Funeral Chapel, and we reflected on the passing of a saint. She was a woman who used her 95 years well. By all accounts she was a student of scripture, a spiritual mother, a living prayer.

Yesterday I had the opportunity to share a poem at her funeral. Today, I'm sharing it here.


For Grandma Upon Her Passing.

At 95 we thought she might live forever, suspended between nature and eternity, the passages caused by old age or accident, whichever God gifted first. Brow folded over brow, wisdom lines tracing trenches until her 90th birthday, then no more. (One can acquire only what wisdom is acquirable.) Thin-skinned hands, veins light purple the color of queens who seem to outshine the lot of us. Affections turned toward home, toward husband, and children, and children's children, to mother and father, to friends who visit in late afternoon memories. In well-worn age, the world's weights became helium balloons, releasable, laughable, floating things. Memories, family, faith, hope-- these are the anchors of age.

95 and we thought she might live forever. Perhaps she did.

IMG_4733-600x600 Image by Amber Haines.


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