In Memory & Hopeful Expectation {for Eula}

I have written this at least ten times. Five times in my head – the words keeping me awake at night. Five times on paper – but never good enough.

And now I’m giving up. Because I understand that words won’t do justice to the story I want to tell you. Words cannot capture the brightness of my grandmother’s life. So what I have written will just have to do, although I am certain that it’s not enough.

A poem has been stuck in my mind for a year now – it comforts me when I wish I lived closer to my family. It frames what I believe is true about relationships with loved ones – whether we are separated by mere street blocks, by thousands of miles, or by our very state of being. The poem goes:

I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart)

I am never without it (anywhere I go, you go, my dear, & whatever is done by me is your doing, my darling)

I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet)

I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)

And it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant & whatever a sun will always sing is you

Here is the deepest secret nobody knows

Here is the root of the root & the bud of the bud & the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide

And this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)


Although death separates us now, Gramma’s heart lives among us – it resides in the love we have for her – in the pieces of herself she left behind. Her legacy is part of our story – her love, part of our past & our present.

Two Wednesdays ago I began the climb over the mountains, driving to La Grande. The sky looked angry – gray, unstable & moody. Framing the hill separating La Grande from Pendleton was the most brilliant rainbow I think I have ever seen. The layers of its colors were so distinct from its beginning to its end. It’s almost startling to see something so beautiful set against a sky so fierce. But the most beautiful things in life seem often accompanied by something quite opposite. Death is always prefaced by life.

When I walked into Gramma’s room that same night, I found her surrounded by visitors (as was nearly always the case). This night, one of her oldest friends & a new friend sat on either side of her bed. Her new friend was a staff member at the facility, but his visit was not a condition of his position… he had brought her coffee from Starbucks, & was visiting her on his own time. I remembered his name from a conversation I had with Gramma weeks earlier. She said they were “figuring each other out,” learning from each other. She knew he had a story to tell, & she was ready to listen, when he was ready to share. That night, I realized that something had transpired between them, a deep connection had been made. But Saul’s relationship with my grandmother was not unique. You all are already aware that Gramma cared deeply about the people she came in contact with.

Hours before her spirit left this place, hospice began their care of her. Gramma had become less & less communicative, she was opening her eyes at fewer intervals, but something caused her to stir, & when her eyes flickered open she met the gaze of a new visitor, who introduced herself: “Hi Eula, I’m just the hospice nurse.” To which Gramma responded, “Don’t say ‘just.’” Even at the end, her primary concern was focused on others… her first instinct was to encourage the self-esteem of a woman she had never met. How typically Gramma!

But I’ve digressed. I was going to tell you about the conversation Gramma & I had after Saul & Carol left her room that night. We talked for two & a half, almost three hours. I was struck by how beautiful she looked – her skin as smooth & olive-toned as I’d ever seen. Her eyes had changed from the last time I saw her – they were wider & not quite as clear, but I remember thinking how childlike they were – open & seeking. Her hand clutched mine, & she asked, “Jen – what do you say when someone asks about me? How do you describe me?” I remember pausing in amazement at the perfection of this opportunity. I had, in fact, spent the previous three days asking myself the very same question, & writing down my response. The response contained what I loved most about her, what I admired about her, the memories of her I held most dear.

“It’s funny you asked me that,” I said, “because I wrote you a book with the answer.” We laughed & cried as I read to her. I had written that I loved her strength, her fierce love for her family, her boldness, her courage. I wrote that I loved her elegantly curved handwriting & the many precious notes she had written me throughout my life. I wrote that I loved playing Uno with her, having Christmas at her house & opening presents one at a time in almost painful slowness. I loved her laugh – strong & loud. Her commitment to her own opinions, the way she still asks me about my friends from college, many of whom she met only once. I wrote that I loved her spunk, her tenacity, that more than once I had wished to be more like her. I wrote about how grateful I was to her – for the ways she had supported me over the years – for telling me over & over again that I could do anything I wanted to. I wrote that her support, in many ways, was responsible for shaping the person I am today & the person I am still becoming. I wrote about some of my favorite memories of times we had spend together…

I wrote that words were so painfully inadequate as expressions of my love for her, how I would cherish her always, how I would hold her heart in my own. And I must admit the same to you: I could write thousands of words & read them a thousand different times, & they would not come close to honoring my grandmother’s life the way I want them to. But words are often all we have. I wrote that more than loving her because of the things she did, I loved her simply because she was. I loved her existence, & I believe our collective presence here today testifies that we all loved her in this way. I wrote that she was leaving in her footsteps a beautiful legacy, a garden of lovely flowers. I wrote that I honored her life, her love, her spirit, her wisdom.

She fell asleep that night continuing to murmur little bits of memories… some of them had nothing to do with me. They were about my mother, my sisters, the moment my dad came out of the delivery room on the day I was born… some of the things she said I had no point of reference for at all, but she was smiling & I was content that she was remembering the most precious moments of her life. When I returned the next morning, she was still holding the little book I had written, she had been reading it again, she said. At the end of the book I had recorded some pieces of scripture & prose that resonated with me… one of them was, curiously, a verse that had been recited at my wedding, & now it had returned to my mind. The passage is from the Song of Solomon, “Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm; for love is as strong as death, passion fierce as the grave. Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it.”

Nothing can separate us from the love that was exchanged between our spirits & hers. Love is as strong as death – stronger, I think.

There is little I know that provides comfort when our hearts are breaking. But maybe, instead of contemplating the loss of Gramma, I can remember that her strong spirit is a part of me – her heart is carried within my own. And this is the deepest truth I know: Gramma’s life sang in testimony to a Creator, to the giver of Life. Her life blossomed with good fruit. The greatest universal commandments are to love God & to love each other. My grandmother loved each of us with intensity until her final moment.

The Gospels tell us that God dwells among us when we love one-another. When we reach out to the world around us – we are not simply doing work Jesus commanded; we are actively loving God. This was what my grandmother was engaged in for as long as I knew her. As finite beings, we wrestle with concepts of infinity. Next year at this time, I’ll have completed my master’s degree in theology & be moving on to doctoral work. But I doubt that I’ll be any better equipped to discuss the infinite… there are some concepts the human mind can only just begin to comprehend.

But here is something else I know is true: God is good. No thought I have ever had of God can even begin to compare to the goodness of the Creator. God is infinite goodness. And Gramma has been gathered up into that goodness, into the infinity of love.

I’d like to share one final piece of poetry…

Scripture ends in a marriage.

This is the end to which all

Things tend, the end which makes all

Things new.

All that mars love ignites, makes ash.

But faith, hope, love survive. Love

Is the Last, best word, the end

Into which all will bend, &

Then begin again. The next

Word & the new will be love

As well: for love never ends.

I believe life ends in a marriage, a holy union between the finite being & the infinite Creator. In the end, all that remains is love – oceans & oceans of love. We have been blessed to swim in the sea that was Gramma’s life, & we are blessed to carry her love within our hearts.

Where do I go from here? I know she wouldn’t tell me to stop grieving. Every time I’ve cried in her presence over the past three months, she wept alongside me, & reminded me that tears are okay…joy & sorrow often sit side by side. And indeed, this has been true over the past week. If you are feeling, as I have, a sense of loneliness in your grief, I’d like to suggest that God grieves this loss as well, & is very near…surrounding us as the night embraces the moon. In time, I pray that our hearts will be healed, & find rest in knowing that in her peaceful departure from this world, she was welcomed into a far more beautiful place.

How shall I honor her life? My very bones know the answer to this question. By continuing her legacy – loving my family well, laughing as often as I can, weeping when there is something to grieve, dreaming big dreams, befriending strangers, & living with extravagant generosity.