Considering her age and the fact that she outlived almost everyone in her generation, I was surprised that so many people came to her funeral. There were at least fifty people, many of whom I had never met. My family, of course, had reserved seats—the first two pews at the front of the church. As I took my seat in between my husband, Ben, and cousin, Amber, I fixed my gaze on a beautiful portrait of my grandparents which had been placed just in front of the podium where the gospel is read. It was a picture of my grandparents in their sixties and it is how I remember them when I was a young child. My grandmother was still vibrant and healthy when that photograph was taken, not yet crippled, broken, and tired.
The funeral began with several of her favorite hymns, which she actually picked herself for her own funeral. We sang together, “The Old Rugged Cross,” and “How Great Thou Art.” I could see my cousin, Jeff, in the front row, become emotional. Jeff was my grandmother’s only grandson, and while she wouldn’t admit to having favorites, we all knew that Jeff was undoubtedly her favorite grandchild.
I held it together for most of the ceremony. That is until my mom came up to speak. My mother, dressed in a simple black dress, approached the podium. I could see her lip begin to quiver and her eyes grew hot and red with tears. It took her a few minutes, but she pulled it together and was able to share a few memories and expressions of gratitude to her mom and those who loved and cared for her in her final years. Her message was heartfelt and I could feel her pain. She stood almost right in front of me and when she looked down our eyes locked. A knowing look was shared between us. She was speaking as a daughter about her mother, and I? Well, I was her mother’s granddaughter, her daughter. And my heart hurt thinking of how painful it must be to lose a mother. I looked at my mom realizing how brief life is, and my heart began to break for her and for me too.
The following day as I reflected on the events of Saturday, October 29th, I began to wonder. To wonder if my mom had shared a similar experience with her mom twenty-one years earlier when my great-grandmother, Nanny, had died. I remember when my grandmother’s mother died. I was six years old. And now she was gone too. My own mother is fifty-eight, and while she is certainly not old, in twenty-one years she will be seventy-nine. Seventy-nine is old. And how old will I be? I’ll be forty-eight. And even though that sounds like lifetimes away from now, I know that one day I will remember my grandmother’s funeral and think. Wow, that really wasn’t that long ago, was it?
