Saturday, February 12, 2011
I stood holding her hand yesterday, I stoked her arm, I talked to her a little, and I thought.
I thought about her hands and her arms.
For my entire life Grandma has been "squishy," but lately she has lost so much weight that the skin on her arms hangs loose. Her knuckles are gnarled by the years and by arthritis. Her hands are swollen from the IV's snaking along the bed, biting every finger and hand.
But, her hands are broad. Her fingers are not long and elegant. They are short and stocky. They are like my mom's. Like my aunts'. Like mine.
Her skin is pale, dotted with angel kisses up and down her porcelain arms. Like my mom's. Like my aunts'. Like mine.
My grandma's arms have rocked us to sleep. They have hauled our laundry out to dry. They have carried boxes and boxes of produce for sale. Her hands have spanked us. They have fed us. They have bathed us. They have dressed and diapered us.
Grandma's hands have reached all the way up her arms, and straight to her heart. They have been hands of love to each and every one of us.
Just like my mom. Just like my aunts. And I hope someday, someone will say, just like me.
Friday, February 11, 2011
We are big.
We are loud.
We are opinionated.
We disagree on most everything.
We don't see each other as often as we should.
Either we can't or we won't.
We grew up.
We had kids.
Some of our kids had kids.
But when the call came, we were all there.
Anyone who could make it, did.
Those who couldn't were there with us in spirit.
Meeting spouses, significant others, and babies for the first time.
Remembering how much we love each other.
Wishing we could remember it more often.
In better circumstances.
Because in the end, we are family.
This picture, taken in 1996, represents about 1/2 of my grandma's direct descendants.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
And I am not.
Pretty simple to grasp.
Extremely hard to implement.
This week my Grandma, who will be 90 on the 21st, had a massive hemorrhage in her brain.
I gotta tell you. I am scared. Not that she will die. I am afraid that she won't. And that she won't recover. And that she will be stuck indefinitely in a body that no longer functions. That she will be tied to this earth, not freed to be with our Savior at her wedding feast.
I was talking to my friend, Kelly, yesterday and she reminded me that God is always in control. I love the way she put it.
"God did not get up on Tuesday morning and take roll. "Mary? Mary? Mary Higgins? No Mary? Well, I wonder where she is?'"
Of course He didn't. Of course He knows when she will be making it home.
Because He is God, and I am not.
God thing, too.