You Never Know

I attended a funeral yesterday for the grandmother of my niece’s husband. While I’ve not spent much time with this precious woman, each time I had the pleasure of being in her presence at family functions, she always had a smile, perfectly placed lipstick, and a style that just radiated with sparkle. I had just expected to be a presence of support for my niece and her husband’s family. What I didn’t expect was the memory reel that played out in my mind like Clark Griswold sitting in the attic with his blue turban wrapped head watching family videos with tear-streaked cheeks as Ray Charles crooned.

Her grandchildren, including my niece, sang and played instruments during the service. As I write, my vision is blurry just thinking about it. There are times in life when you shed a few tears but composure is within reach, and you’re able to conduct yourself in a ‘put together’ fashion with a Kleenex in your hand for occasional dabbing of the eyes. And there are times in your life when you need to give a final hug and discreetly excuse yourself. Yesterday was the latter…

The dam cracked, and I realized the water (tears) wouldn’t be able to be kept at bay much longer as my niece began to sing. She sang “We Bring You All Our Sorrows” by Paul Zach. As her voice gained crescendo and softened at the end, the final pieces of cement or soil or whatever component would typically hold the dam softened, and I just knew I wasn’t in control anymore.

I was her age when I got the call from my dad that my grandmother, his mom and my daughter’s namesake, wasn’t doing very well. We weren’t sure if she would make it through the night. At the time, I was working in the shoe department at Bealls. Those that know me are aware that my shoe wardrobe now consists of Brooks tennis shoes and a few selected pairs of heels that are worn only for periods of two hours or less for special occasions, but I used to dream of owning Manolos. That was before the realization struck that the functionality of that dream would resort to me needing a motorized cart on account of my no longer functioning feet.

Grandma Mae had been sick before, but she had always bounced back. I knew when he called that I just needed to leave. I left mid shift and headed to my apartment to quickly pack a bag before traveling the three hours to the hospital. I remember calling on the way to talk to my parents, and I told Grandma Mae that I was on my way.

If you’re familiar with Texas, you know that there are Farm to Market roads that connect points of travel making it quicker to get from point A to point B. The plus side is that there’s really no one on this road. The downside is that there is no shoulder, and things creep in the night. The many times I traveled this route to my parents’ house, it was rare to pass more than a handful of cars the entire way. I’m not going to suggest that you could speed on this road, but I may or may not know firsthand that it’s possible to shave some time off your ETA. Except for the time a few years later when my husband was driving us to my parents’ home to visit for the weekend. We came over the top of a hill and, despite brake slamming, creamed a deer. I’m sorry, but there’s not really a gentle way to phrase that other than the aforementioned statement. I was disturbed, but this moment was one of the first of many that I internally proclaimed my husband as my hero akin to some kind of Avenger status. He pulled over and handled that situation by safely pulling it out of the road and taking care of business. To this day I have a healthy respect for Ranch Hand grill guards and 1997 F-350 Powerstroke diesels… I’m pretty sure they’re indestructible.

I made it to the hospital in time to hug my dad and see my grandmother before she breathed her last. I held her hand as she spoke of seeing angels. Wow. To have one foot in this earthly realm and one in the overflowing, perfect, glory-filled splendor of Heaven in the presence of our Lord. I’ll never forget it.

My niece finished singing. Throughout the remainder of the service, her husband’s grandfather, newly widowed, wiped his eyes with a scarlet handkerchief. My heart ached for his loss. Scars of grief in my own heart ached.

Psalm 56:8, “You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book.” (NLT)

July is a hard month of remembrance for my family. My dad passed away on July 16, 2017. Cancer is a thief, and while it’s a road I NEVER would have thought we’d walk on our life paths, it was. For reasons unbeknownst to me (Isaiah 55:8) the Lord trusted my dad and thus us as a family with this trial and will surely use it for His glory. I have no idea how eight years have passed, but at the same time some memories feel like yesterday. When you walk a road of sorrow, though grass may grow around the trail, the path is always there as though you just walked it.

As the service closed, the pastor equated life to a two part series. Volume 1 and Volume 2. Volume 1 being our time on this earth, and Volume 2 being our time in eternity. We should live the first volume in preparation for the second. These legacies of faith, while it cuts like a dagger to see them pass from this earthly realm because our humanity craves their presence, show us what it looks like to be baton passers of faith to our children and prayerfully them to their children’s children.

A generational legacy of faith.

A generational legacy of grit and grace.

And a generational legacy of walking that out alongside our children without a veil of perfection.

My daughter and I made it to the car after final hugs, and I completely lost it. I’m talking blubber fest. We had a moment of connection and conversation through sadness and appreciation of those in our family and extended family that have gone before us.

I recently found a piece of writing in my dad’s journal. Unbeknownst to any of us, it would only be six years later rather than the forty or fifty he referenced in the entry. What struck me the most was the ending. You never know.

Only the Author of our stories knows the number of our days. So we’d better live our days well.