Thursday's Fare . . . September 25, 2003

Saying Goodbye

Death is kind of a strange thing isn't it.

It catches you off-guard, even when you're expecting it.

Recently my 99 year old Grandmother passed away. We had known it would be soon, but it still came as death usually does - heavy and unreal and so apparently final. We were saddened beyond words. Ninety-Nine years is a good long life, but it doesn't make it any easier to say goodbye.

"Nanna," as we called her, was truly the salt of the earth and was the quintessential Grandmother. All the way down to the tattered old slippers she sometimes wore and the colorful and playful way she would tease us into understanding some of life's more important lessons. Nanna had you figured out. That much was clear.

She was "healthy as a horse" (one of her expressions) and up until two weeks preceding her death was in relatively perfect physical condition. I used to ask her how she stayed so fit and she swore she had no idea. I always thought it had something to do with being raised on a farm in Pennsylvania. I think she suspected more the occasional "whiskey-sour."

Unlike me, Nanna was ready for her death. She told me some time ago that she had long since outlived her closest friends in life and most of her new ones as well. Not that she wanted or willed it, but she was at peace with the end that she knew couldn't be too far away.

I recall picking her up at an airport in Florida while on vacation. She and her sister Marion had flown down together from Pennsylvania. I think Nanna was 90 or so at the time - Marion perhaps 85. I asked them how their flight had been.

"Actually it was quite rough," Marion replied.

"I'm sorry to hear that," I said. There was a pause.

"You know," Nanna responded a few moments later, "I've got to be honest with you. I certainly would have felt pretty bad for all those other people on the plane, but Marion and I aren't exactly spring chickens anymore, and if that big bird had gone down it wouldn't have been the worst thing that could have happened. We were sipping our whiskey-sours up there among the clouds and that sky was so blue and . . ." She stopped. She saw me smiling at her.

"It really was a beautiful day," she said.

I know that while she was mostly joking, that part of her meant it - that she was telling her Grandson in the shadowy grey language of the everyday that when the time came she was ready. And that any worries for the blessing of her life were wasted ones. I tried to remember that, but it was hard. It's never easy to say goodbye.

We had a beautiful service for Nanna. All her relatives were here, including her four daughters and enough grandchildren, great-grandchildren, nieces and nephews to fill half the chapel at our church. My mother had written a perfect obituary - mentioning Nanna's teenage forays in the family car before women were "allowed" to drive. Somehow the few words spoke so well of her spirit - especially the one's about her being "genuinely herself" and "blooming wherever she was planted." The newspapers charged over a hundred dollars to run it. I didn't know newspapers did such a thing - charging someone for the news that is the notice of the death of a loved one.

I must say the idea really bothers me.

But in this case it seemed worth every penny. Beautiful words for a beautiful life lived with grace and dignity and something more . . .

This was bourne out to me as we cleaned out Nanna's apartment where she had spent the last ten years of her life. As I sorted through several drawers and folders of letters, notes and old photos I was struck by the number of cards that said simply, "thank you."

"Thank you," for everything from the phone call made at just the right time, to the years of service as a member of a charitable women's group in her hometown of Charleston WV. Nanna had spent her life as the busy wife of a prominent Orthopedic Surgeon and had traveled the globe extensively in her later years. But her modest apartment here in Roanoke wasn't filled so much with any treasures she had acquired on those journeys, nor with the material trappings that might have resulted from their successful 50 plus year career in medicine.

In the end, she had saved only the simple reminders of what God had been able to do for others through her. Her service and love were given quietly and without any fanfare. With a trust that "come what may," you always do the very best you can wherever you happen to find yourself.

I hope I can honor her life with some semblance of what she has been able to give - and with even half the humility. As well as the trust that it's not so much "goodbye" as it is, "I'll see you just around the bend."

Godspeed Nanna. We love you. May you bloom among the angels and inspire them all.