Loss and Life

My husband’s Grandpa, 92 years old, breathed his last breath Easter Sunday. Fitting, I thought, when Jon told me the news, to die the day Jesus rose and gave eternal life to his own.

Grandpa was alone that Easter morning, in a nursing home that smelled of urine, cafeteria food, and bleach. We’d been expecting that last breath for months, and now it had come and gone, like a whisper in the wind. So we packed our bags and blue cooler to travel North for a funeral—to honor Jon’s memories of fishing and camping and cards with a Northwoodsman who’d survived a depression, war and hard labor.

And as we drove up North we told the boys: “Your Great-Grandpa died.”

And Micah asked: “Did he love God?”

And Jon answered, “I think so. He said he loved God.”

And I thought: I think so. . . .

And I wondered: How can you know so ? . . .

Standing with Jon and the boys in the funeral home, piano music playing over the intercom, boxes of white tissue on every end table, plush pink flowered couches scattered about the foyer, the brown casket open—Grandpa’s body displayed on white satin—skin translucent, blue-veined; eyelashes mashed together under unseeing bifocals smudged still; hands folded across blue tie (I’d never seen him in a tie), and the neck, thinner than I remembered, disappearing into blue dress shirt--and I wondered:

Where is the 92 year old soul that breathed inside this body?

I wrestled a squirmy Isaiah in my arms, as Micah stood solemnly beside the casket, as Josiah clung to my dress pants.  Jon reached down and lifted Josiah’s warm three year old body over the side of brown casket. Josiah’s warm brown eyes gazed on cold 92 year old body. Josiah talk-whispered: “Grandpa’s dead? He died? He’s dead!” Grey-headed relatives near casket smiled—thankful for the distraction of young life from old death.

Micah talk-whispered: “Yeah. He’s dead. He’s in heaven, with God, . . . I think.”

I think. . . .

I wandered away from casket, set Isaiah's flailing feet on carpet--he squealed and ran towards plush pink couches. Grey-headed relatives smiled again at new life, fresh life, innocent life. And as my son wandered free, chubby fingers exploring floor vents, knocking over tissue boxes,  I pondered: 

When I die, will people say, "I know she loved God more than life!" ? 

And I asked myself:  Do I love God more than life? When my body lies cold in a casket will my boys say: "My mama loved God, this I know!"? 

Does my life love my God? 

"They will know we are Christians by our love, by our love, yes they'll know we are Christians by our love."

"Let us not love in word or with tongue, but in deed and truth. We shall know by this that we are of the truth and shall assure our heart before Him." (1 John 3)