rudderless

Back to Living

We are finally home, settling back into life. Last week was a whirlwind of planning, travel, and family. We spent the early days attending to logistics, writing up memories and hymns and verses we wanted for Granny. Buying new shoes for little girls (the second pair of brown “funeral shoes” Sophie’s had in little more than a year). When I told Sophie about Granny, she sat alone in my parent’s front room for a good fifteen minutes. She wouldn’t tell me what she was thinking about, but it was quite clear, and since then, she hasn’t asked a single thing about Granny’s departure. Apparently she understood just enough. And not too much, as the adults among us still have to hash over the details. We are all still processing the past month. And I don’t think we’ll ever be done missing our sweet sweet Mother and Grandmother.

Granny was buried not far from the log cabin where she grew up, only a few miles from her childhood church, just next to her mother. The service was about as personal as they come, thanks to my Mother’s careful planning. The tiny church was full of her nieces, nephews, cousins, sons, grandsons, daughters, granddaughters, and four great-grandchildren. One of my favorite quotes of the week was her niece saying, “Imagine that reunion when baby sister finally came home!” This was the same niece, Janice, who said at the service that Granny was among the most beautiful women she’d even laid eyes on. When she was young she said, “Aunt Colie, you’re never going to get old. You’re just going to pretty away.”

Pretty away. Colie was exceptionally beautiful. She was busy touching people even in her last days. Sheri, a nurse at Hospice Atlanta, came in one morning while I was there and Granny brought her right up close and said something to the tune of, “I see you doing your work with love.” She shared a few thoughts in a saint-like way and then closed her eyes again. Sheri brought her a poem by Joyce Kilmer, which I read at her service.

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth’s flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.