Funeral Talk

Grandma has been telling me for maybe twenty years that I’ll be speaking at her funeral. As the years went by she had a list of questions she liked to ask me over and over (these included, “Have you met any nice boys yet? Are you trying to meet nice boys? Have you had those moles checked recently?”), but perhaps her favorite question was, “Have you written my funeral talk yet?” I’d always say, “No, Grandma, I haven’t. You’ll just have to give me more time.” So she did. She kept giving me more and more time and I kept on not writing it. This arrangement was working out nicely, I thought. I really liked it.

This last week as I thought about giving this talk, I realized that everything I want to say about Grandma I’ve already said to her, in a letter I gave her this past Christmas. So maybe this is the easy way out, but no, Grandma, I haven’t written your funeral talk yet. I hope this will do instead.

Dear Grandma,

I recently read an article about how a mother and her baby can exchange cells through the placenta during pregnancy. These cells remain in the other person long after birth and separation, so they each carry a piece of the other for the rest of their lives. Conceivably, the mother could pass on cells from her mother, so the child carries living evidence of her grandmother inside of her.

I believe it.

You are inside me.

How could you not be? My earliest days were full of you. Before I knew words I knew your voice. You held me close as you spoke with your firstborn—my mother—and my newborn neurons fired in rhythm with the back-and-forth of your steady conversation.

Then I grew, and you stayed, and you filled me up with memories that make me who I am.

You are in my head.

You are summer swamp coolers and raspberries, a blanket on the lawn and evening weed-pulling parties. You are winter divinity and chip dip, Sunday night visits with German chocolate cake. You’re a picnic on the Fourth of July, my first stop on Halloween, a turkey-shaped peanut cup at Thanksgiving. You are Santa Claus, Grandma, with your round, happy cheeks and those bright, twinkly eyes that fill up and spill over when we all sing “Star Bright” in your gold-carpeted living room.

You are quick trips to the fabric store, the hum of a sewing machine, the murmur of words through pursed lips holding straight pins while you hem up my new Easter dress. You are laughter and worries and flying gossip as heads bend over jigsaw puzzles and I stay quiet, listening to the grownups talk and searching for that one perfect piece. You are declarations of my brilliance when I finally click two puzzle pieces together. You are praise and support and belief and unending loyalty.

You are in my heart.

You are unafraid of feelings, good and bad, while my default is to hide and ignore unpleasantness. You are open and frank and you’re brave. You’re the person I think of now when my children are sad or scared and I don’t know how to help. “What would Grandma say?” I ask myself, and then I stumble through.

You are the voice waiting in the phone when I can’t be alone with myself any longer. You listen to my throat-aching silence and you know just what it means. You have talked me through pre-marriage jitters and hormonal upheavals and motherhood angst and impending loss. You tell me things about myself I didn’t know. Your voice weaves through my head and holds up my heart.

You know what else, Grandma? You are grit. You are determined endurance through faulty lungs and aching hips and failing legs and a heart that has had almost enough. You are faith despite unfairness and grief. You are action in times of crippling despair.

You are love. Even in the face of ingratitude. You are love, even when your love seems to be dismissed. You are love and acceptance even through disagreements and differences.

Finally, you are rescue. You were standing, with open arms, when my world fell down around me. I will always treasure that image of you, and the feeling of being wrapped in your strong, lingering hug with the quiet tickle of your voice in my ear, buoying me up with a love that will always last.

You’re inside me, Grandma. And I’m so glad you always will be.

Love,

Amy Sue

I’m going to miss my grandma. She often said in recent years that she wasn’t good for anything, stuck in that chair, unable to go places, unable to host parties like she wanted to. But she was good for so much. I have so many emails of encouragement and hand-written cards from her. I have a beautiful quilt on my bed that she made for our wedding, and a thick and intricate afghan she gave me for high school graduation. We still have the blankets she gave my children when they were born. These are pure expressions of her love, and that love doesn’t just die. I can pull it tight and warm around me and it will stay until I someday see her again.

I’m so thankful I had such a grandmother. I’m thankful she fought and stayed for so long. I’m thankful for the promises of life after death and forever families.

In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.