And so it is that once again, our family is embarking down this path of grief. There were so many losses in such a short period of time, and then there was a brief respite – a time of healing – a wonderful time indeed. And now, here we are . . .
. . . again.
The phone rang this morning at 6:19. By the time we reached it, the caller had moved on, and my cell phone was ringing. I knew the news even before I could utter a “hello.”
Gramps has died.
That news is only a few hours old -- indeed, I haven’t even finished making all the necessary phone calls -- but already I’m wrestling with my emotions: joy & relief that he is finally with Jesus coupled with an ugly, selfish pity as the familiarity of death and grief in recent years gives rise to a measure of dread knowing what lies ahead.
In fact, I already had a bit of a tantrum with God in the shower this morning, the source of my fit being the feeling of injustice at only having three days. Acting as if God owes me anything (another topic for another post, another day), I'm throwing a fit because I only got to have January 1st, 2nd and 3rd. You see, in my world, I’ve been reveling in the fact that this is a fresh new year with no grief or loss in it! I’ve even shared that glee with others and have been riding along on the joy of that feeling. I love new prospects, new pages, new books, new opportunities, new years with no messes in them yet. And after the past 2+ years being ravaged by death and loss and many, many tears, I relished the idea of a brand new year. I’ve felt like Anne of Green Gables as she marvels to Marilla “isn’t it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?” This year had that same feeling.
But now, on day 4, Gramps has died. And we are now again in "that" season. Planning services. Remembering a life. Pondering death. Wrestling with the tension inherent in the death of a saint. Processing paperwork. Notifying loved ones. Locating friends. Writing an obituary. Thanking Jesus for bringing Gramps home. Questioning if we really did all we could to provide for and comfort him in his illness.
And so I’m sitting here confronted with a decision: I can choose to stay in my pity party, or I can refocus and walk through this season differently.
It is of course no coincidence that I can't get this verse out of my head: “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.” (Psalm 116:15). If this is how Jesus feels, I too can choose this attitude.
So what does that look like?
These past two years, Robert and I have dedicated a great deal of time and effort questioning every care decision we’ve made, struggling to make the right choices in the face of no good alternatives, entertaining guilt when unable to meet the self-imposed expectation to do more, trying desperately to reconcile the cruelness of dementia with the faithfulness of a life well-lived and wrestling with another loss of a family member, a loss unlike death since his body remained alive. I would love to say we went through all of this beautifully and unscathed. But in reality, we've really had a hard time dealing with so much of this.
In light of that, this really is a day of joy. It is a day to celebrate the end of a faithful life, to rejoice knowing Gramps' suffering is over, to smile at the reunion taking place between a dad and a daughter he didn’t know had already gone ahead of him, to ponder the perplexing way in which death has restored to him a dignity that was lost to dementia and diapers. And in many ways, we’ve already walked through the loss. It’s been a long path of saying goodbye. That’s one of the blessings and curses of dementia. So to finally see an end to all this, there truly is much joy in this day.
As I look in the faces of my boys, I can feel sadness at the loss of another important piece of their history, or I can feel gratitude that because of Gramps’ life, these boys are here. Presented that way, the choice is easy.
Edgar Eugene Livingston
July 11, 1922 - January 4, 2011
"Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints." Ps. 116:15
