Remembering

Two years ago, I had to say goodbye to my grandmother, my nana, my friend.  Growing up with five siblings and even more cousins, there was not usually a time for one on one conversation.  When I became an adult and moved closer to her home I was able to visit her quite often.  What seemed weird at first to have all her attention for any length of time became a treasure.   

It started out as dinner in her apartment, she’d cook, I’d offer to help, but there would be none of that.  Then as she advanced in years, she went to assisted living and still I’d visit and though there were no meals, there certainly was a drawer stocked full of bingo snack winnings.  I was to take one, preferably two things and I knew from years of experience refusing was a lost cause. 

We’d talk about going to the park on campus of the facility and we did a few times, but not as many as we’d hoped.  Either weather, time, health, or any other of so many variables that in hind sight seem ridiculous not to do something kept us from seizing the day. 

The last time I was able to visit her in her room, we tried to go for a walk.  She wasn’t feeling steady on her feet, and I wasn’t skilled in helping someone get into a wheel chair.  We tried once and I would have tried again, but she said no and I knew I needed to respect her wishes, but I also had a feeling this would be the last time I visited her and I felt guilty for not being able to take her to the park. 

That day she complimented me as she did many times.  Nothing like a nana’s kindness to boost the ego.  But I knew she was sincere and I never doubted once she loved me and was speaking her honest thoughts to me.  It was about half way through my visit when she was telling me of all the people who visited her and she told me she saw her mother who lived across the courtyard.  She tried to stand up and look out the window behind her. 

I looked out the window to see the other side of the building and the perfectly manicured lawn between the perfectly smooth walkways.  I asked, her about it to make sure I heard her correctly.  I said, “Who did you say lived there?” She said again her mother.  She said “Don’t you remember her?”  Now for years her timeline had been off and every time I’d answer matter of factly, no I didn’t know whoever she was talking about that was a character in her story far before my entrance.  Not in a way of shaming, but just to be honest while still being engaged in the story.   

I said, “No Nana, I never met your mother.”  “Well she lives right there.” She tried to get up again and she stood enough to look and she pointed so certainly in the same direction.  She was so sure of it, and her clarity in the rest of the conversation was so accurate.  It reminded me of stories of people having visions of heaven.  It reminded me of my own grandfather, her husband who a few days before he died, whispered, “It’s so beautiful.” She told me she thought he had seen heaven.   

I thought she also was seeing the veil between heaven and earth lift and as I sat there and thought of all of this and what it would mean, I started to cry.  I couldn’t hold it in, I hoped she wouldn’t see and tried to look away.  She did see and she said, “Why are you crying?” I knew I couldn’t unload all of that on her, so I said, “I just like visiting you.”  She said, “ I like when you visit me too!” 

Turns out that was the last time I visited her in that room.  In the next week or two she would be in the hospital and the hope was she would return to the room she had been in and I’d be able to sit with her and hear more stories. That was not to be.  I did get to visit while she was in the hospital.  Even in the hospital she was a riot.  She had a way of saying the most common things with the funniest inflection.  I left thinking she was on the mend, so I was surprised to hear when she had passed away. 

Starting a few years before she died I’d visit and she would say, “I just don’t know why I’m here.” This of course struck sadness to my soul for what must come unless the rapture happened.  I’d quickly say, “It’s because we love you and God wants you here.”  But she’d say it again as if to say what is my purpose?  Interesting how we never outgrow our need to know what our purpose is.  And I thought of her sitting in her room waiting for visitors or the next activity.  How so much of life is spent working so frantically and autonomously and then to find you are relying on someone else for nearly everything. 

I’d always joke with her that she had however many years left as she was old.  When it was ninety-four, she said, “Oh, no, I don’t want that!”  I’d joke and say, “Well it’s not up to you, I say another ninety-four.” We would agree no it wasn’t up to her and it wasn’t up to me either.  And she’d say with all the fire a ninety-four-year-old woman with arthritis could muster as she pointed into the air as if to underline the spoken word, “He’s been so good to me.”  And so even with her question of why so long for this earth, she saw the goodness of God throughout her life and even in the present.

  

I have so many questions about heaven.  What kind of work will we do? How do we recognize each other?  If we aren’t given in marriage, will I have to visit my Nana and my Pop-Pop in different locations?  Will any of this matter to me once I’m there? 

It’s difficult for me to think of heaven with any sense of certainty other than my Savior is there and because of His substitution for sin, burial, and resurrection, I know I’ll be there along with all the saints who have believed in it also.  I have visions of the garden restored and being able to walk with Him – true relationship resolution.  There is part of me though that wonders how much of our personality is pure, not needing to be changed entirely. 

I wonder if when I get to heaven I’ll see a man who has a bucket of corn chips and gallons of ice cream ready for visitors.  If there will be a woman who has a table full of mashed potatoes, carrots, onions, and all sorts of food laughing the best laugh I’ve ever heard.  Maybe some other man will have a stack of records and always have them playing when you visit so you have the backdrop of music to the conversation.  And I wonder if there is some lady with a serving dish full of mixed nuts walking around all the gatherings handing a napkin to everyone allowing them to take their fill from the dish, its contents never running out.  I’d be able to recognize them all for certain then. 

Maybe in years to come people will visit me and I will say, “My Nana lives just over there, do you remember her?”  Whatever the ending will be, I know the place I am going, whether it be thinly veiled or heavily concealed.  He is with me now, He prepares a place for me, and He will be there - The One for whom my soul longs and the object of all the praise the saints have to offer.  And though on this earth we might wonder why we are here or what the purpose is, in that place, there will be no question as to why we are there or what we are to do. 

My heart is sad for missing those who have gone before me, but my spirit is envious they are with their Savior; in the presence of fullness, no more questions, no waiting, only perfection.  And when you see it like that, I cannot help but celebrate the lives of those so cherished here knowing they are home with the One who cherishes perfectly and completely.    

Stacy Rapp © 2018