A New Beginning

It's 1:00 PM on January 1, 2015. I just rolled out of bed. Don't judge—I know that much of the world's population is a bit slothful in getting up and going today, though I bet for much different reasons than me. I actually woke up at 7 this morning and couldn't go back to sleep. At about 7:30, I got a call from my dad. Even before answering the call, I knew what it was about—which is probably why I had such a hard time sleeping last night. Anyway—I've been sitting in bed since then, until now, because I'm feeling a bit lost. How do you start out a new year positively upon losing a beloved grandmother?

I don't know what else to do, so I guess I'll blog about it.

Gramies and Gramps lived only a few blocks away from my childhood home. My siblings, cousins, and I often ventured over there whenever the opportunity presented itself. Gramps taught me how to play pool and poker. (He also offered to teach me how to swear at traffic when I got my learner's permit. Unfortunately, that was a skill I picked up all on my own. Must be genetic.) Gramies taught me how to set the table, go shopping, and bake sugar cookies. She also taught me why it might not be the safest choice to sit in the dryer or slide down the laundry shoot.

If I had only one word to describe Gramies, it would be this: comforting. I remember that when I was a young girl in Primary (aka Sunday School for Mormon kids), my mom was teaching us the words to the hymn I Know that My Redeemer Lives. The song begins, “I know that my Redeemer lives. What comfort this sweet sentence gives.” Most of us didn't know what those words meant, so we broke it down—word by word. When we got to the word comfort, my mom told us to think of a time when we felt safe and loved—to think of a time where we knew everything would be all right. I thought of Gramies—of how I would come into her house from playing outside and how she would wrap me in a blanket, cuddle me, and put baby lotion smiley-faces on my hands. Maybe that's why, to me, comfort smells like baby powder.

Every Halloween, we would go trick-or-treating at their house. Gramps would always make a big fuss about how we had the best costumes he had seen all night and “[were we] sure that [we were] the grandkids, because [we] looked too scary or beautiful or grown-up to be the grandkids.” Gramies made sure that we didn't just get the tootsie-roll pops they would hand out. She always baked giant pumpkin shaped cookies—decorated with orange and green frosting with chocolate chip smiles. Maybe that's why, to me, comfort tastes like sugar cookies.

Growing up, Gramies would often take me on what we would call our “special days.” She would pick me up in the morning. We would run whatever errands she needed to accomplish, and then the rest of the day was mine. Usually, we would go to a toy store or craft store where I would pick out a toy or project. She would often buy me a new outfit, and it didn't even have to be on the sale rack. (A big deal for a little girl whose main clothing source was hand-me-downs.) We'd go to lunch—usually at Shari's. I would get soup and a sandwich. She'd take me back to her house where I would spend the rest of the day in her basement playing with my toy/craft and watching Nickelodeon. Maybe that's why comfort, to me, looks like that old basement.

Throughout the years, I've tried to make time to visit Gramies as often as I could—especially after Gramps passed away. In college, I would e-mail her on a weekly basis, and she would e-mail me back. In all those years of correspondence and communication, it was clear that she believed in me more than I believed in myself. Whenever I felt insecure or incapable, she would encourage me to “keep the tiger” in me, to not back down from harsh critics or difficult situations. On one of my last visits to see her—after she had already been placed in hospice—I was shocked to see how old and frail she looked. I wondered if that would be the last time I'd see her. I could hardly get a word out, choking back tears at the thought of saying a good-bye there and then. She looked at me—her piercing blue eyes were more clear than I had seen them in years—and asked how work was going. Not wanting to divulge the negative details of a rather difficult school year, I told her how everything is “fine.” She nodded and smiled and then said something to the effect of, “You just be there for those kids. Keep fighting for them, because that's the best thing in the world anyone can do. I'm proud of you.” We had several visits after this, but this will probably be the way I choose to remember her. Maybe that's why comfort, to me, sounds like my Gramies.

I regret that I didn't see her one last time. I'm furious that an extreme case of stomach flu kept me from visiting with her on Christmas. I'm ashamed that I left town without saying good-bye to her again, and I suppose that's a regret with which I'll have to learn to cope. However, I am thankful for the time that we had. Even more so, I'm abundantly grateful that death is not the end but, rather, a new beginning. I'm thankful that Gramies gets to start the new year reunited with Gramps, something for which she has long awaited. I'm comforted now in knowing that family relationships are not temporary but are potentially perpetuated and even magnified in our lives to come. That is the perspective I hope to carry with me throughout the coming year.

And, in her honor, these are my resolutions:

• That I may be a source of safety and comfort for all those with whom I come in contact.
• That I will care more about the love in my heart than the money in my pocket.
• That I will share my understanding with others; specifically, that life is a time to sow a legacy of goodness, death is an important step in achieving our intended potential, and that family relationships are eternally bound.

I love you, Gramies. Be sure to give Gramps a hug for me.