So much has happened in these last weeks, that I almost don't know where to start. But, first and foremost, I wanted to share the words that I wrote for my Grandma's funeral.
Most of you probably know that I wasn't able to go to the funeral because my youngest was in the hospital and, at that point, we didn't know if her medical situation was going to go north or south. Praise the Lord, she ended up improving! We didn't know that, though, so didn't want to risk the possibility of being caught three hours away on the other side of the mountains if there happened to be inclement weather.
My Brother, Brian, did a marvelous job reading this - and really, I might have asked him to do it anyway because I don't know that I would've been able to get through it. I was able observe the service via skype (thanks to my brother, Andrew!) with my sweet friend, Tassie, by my side (fully robed and masked since Annika was in isolation). The hospital staff was kind enough to give the space we needed, and Annika kindly slept through it all, so it was uninterrupted.
Life is sweet. So precious. So fleeting. As I read through the box of letters and mementos saved by my Grandma, I was struck by how I was reading through the precious moments and memories of a whole lifetime. A whole beautiful lifetime.
Annika, who is three, drew me a picture of Grandma dancing in Heaven. What a joy!
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Written on 1/21/16 - The day Grandma died
My grandma, Margaret Helene Larson, died today.
I am in shock and disbelief that this is really happening. Of course, I always knew the day would come, and it was expected in the end, but in spite of it all - I can’t believe she’s really and truly gone.
Just three short weeks ago I was there. I could hug her frail body and bring her hot tea and lunch. I sprayed her wild hair down and combed it so she wouldn’t worry about it looking a mess. I laid out her clothes for her to dress after her shower. When I walked into her room, it smelled like my grandma - like her houses had smelled. We sang loudly the happy birthday song to celebrate 95 years. She bemoaned the fact that her great-grandkids were only seeing her as “a crazy lady,” and told them so. I will make sure they get the story straight.
She was declining in body and forgetful as anything, but still compassionate enough to hold my hand and comfort me about my little one’s heart condition. She asked me five minutes later what I was crying about because she had forgotten but, in the moment, she understood and knew and pointed me towards Jesus. We talked of her times in North Dakota, of her horse - Peggy, whom she rode to school, how she brought potatoes and put them in the wood stove for lunch. I asked her what her favorite food was as a child and she told me there wasn’t much to be had because it was the Great Depression. She spoke of a man who worked for food and board on her family farm.
When I rubbed her back, she groaned with joy. When I told her she was beautiful and a gift and thanked her for all she had done for me, she cried.
My Grandma was a beautiful soul. We called her Marysville Grandma, Ephrata Grandma, Afraid-of Grandma, White-haired Grandma, White Grandma and More Grandma. Whatever whim of a name a grandchild would come up with, she accepted with grace and loved us in her gentle, vivacious way.
I have so many memories, from eating beef barley soup with a stack of bread and butter, to her teaching me how to play cribbage. I remember arriving early on the train, walking through Ephrata and along the windy hill next to the canal. I wandered through her orchards, ate too many cherries, and had little, practical conversations along the way.
I am one blessed granddaughter!
She impacted me in more ways that I can say. In a big way when she paid for much of my tuition to attend a Bible School in Sweden. There I met my husband and was introduced to the missions organization I later joined. We now have four beautiful kids.
Grandma also taught me a lot of sense, like the time when she told me to be sure and wear a bra all the time so “they wouldn’t hang down really low.” We were stopped at a red light in her car. A lady was crossing the crosswalk in front of us, clearly braless. I was 14, very embarrassed. I think I agreed to always do it, but didn’t make eye contact.
Grandma was a hard worker. She got up early and got things done - “Work first, then play,” I remember her saying. And she didn’t seem to forget the play. She was ready for a game or a laugh or something silly. I remember her hauling sprinklers around the orchard just as clearly as I remember the glint in her eye when she was winning at Shucks and her willingness, almost joyful determination, to proudly pose for the “swimsuit edition” of the family calendar. I think she was 78 years old at the time.
Grandma loved Jesus. She wasn’t preachy about it, but lived a quiet, faithful life. She held to the rhythm of reading her Bible, her devotional book, and writing in her journal each night.
The Grandma I saw three weeks ago was the frail, dying Grandma. She’d lived a hard, strong life and she’d pushed into the challenges. But the body gives up: weak and frail. And she was tired. She’d run her race well - her children and many grandchildren can attest to that.
I’m happy, so happy, to think of my spunky Grandma finally now released from the chains of her weak heart and bones and body. I can’t imagine how it feels to enter into glory, or what it looks like - but the thought of my Grandma standing before the throne of God as He says to her, “Well done, my good and faithful servant,” brings my heart joy and I smile amidst the tears.
