From Timothy, with love

Those of you who know me, know that I like to visit my grandmother in the mornings before work. It started when she moved to Morningview, an assisted-living facility, mainly as a way for me to make sure she wasn't lonely. Her place is right around the corner from my shop, so after I drop the kids at school, I swing by Grandma's. Now I realize, Grandma is probably the most popular resident at Morningview, attends almost every function or class they offer, and never gets lonely. My mom visits every day at lunch, other friends and family visit when they can, and in between you'll find Grandma at Bingo or Wii bowling or Jazzercise.

I usually find her in her room, reading her Bible, doing her "daily devotion." Today was no different. I knock, she calls "Who is it?" even though she knows it's me, and I sit in the rocking chair across from her and soak up all I can. I ask what's she's reading this day, she explains, and we laugh and share funny things the kids have done, family events, that kind of thing. Sometimes I lead with a question, sometimes I let her tell me what she wants me to hear. My grandmother's memory is like a feather in the wind; it lands still for a moment only to be whisked away to somewhere else, touching on here and there before it lands again.

"Today I'm reading in Timothy," she tells me. "Who wrote Timothy?, she asks me. "Paul," I say. "Right! Very good." I feel like I'm five years old. "Wendy, do you know what was so dear about Timothy?," she asks.

"What?"
"He was taught the way of the Lord by his grandmother."

Tears started to fill my eyes, but then she was off again, to another subject, wanting to show me old pictures my mom had sorted and brought to her. I flipped through them, one picture my Grandma is holding a strawberry pie, her favorite. One picture she is reading to Savannah, my oldest then three sitting in her lap in that same rocking chair I sit in now. One picture my mom is pinning a corsage on Grandma, Grandpa is standing behind her looking on..."Must've been our anniversary," Grandma said.

"Grandma, how did you manage to carry on when Grandpa died? Weren't you lonely?"

My Grandma waved her hands in the air, dismissing the lonely comment like it was nothing, "You just do, I had no choice, and I trusted God."

The key to my Grandma's whole life right there, trust God. Now I know some people would make fun of that, maybe even call Grandma's trust naive, but how else do you get through what life throws your way? Without trust, and faith, and some kind of reassurance that there is a plan bigger than you can imagine, how can there be peace?

My Grandma lives in a place where routinely someone dies, or someone leaves for the hospital never to come back, or someone is moved into the alzheimer's ward. I'm reminded of this every time I walk down the halls to my Grandma's, and I see the empty, packed up rooms where someone lived just a moment ago. "Death is just a part of life," Grandma says and waves those little hands in the air again. She is so content with her station in life and her fate.

I, however, am not. So I ask her, "How can you be so at peace with old age?"

This, as best as I can remember it, was her reply. "It's not hard being old, not for me. You see, I am a child of God and he will take care of me. Everyone younger is struggling, but I've got news for you, it gets easier. When you're 90 like me, people don't expect much from you. They are just happy to see you're still alive. They are shocked that you're still walking around. If I don't remember something, or drool when I eat supper, or make any kind of mistake, people just blame it on my age. If I act silly, they just say I'm in my second childhood. I can get away with anything!"

I snickered. "Yes, but what about dying? Aren't you afraid?"

Grandma then quoted me word for word her favorite scripture. The woman who can't remember what she ate for breakfast quoted word for word..."Fear not for I am with thee. Be not dismayed, for I am thy God. I will strengthen thee, yea I will help thee, yea I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness."

Then Grandma's mind did its little feather dance again, and she said, "That's it, now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go to the bathroom...your mother will be here in a minute to take me to get my hair done, and you have to get to work!"

Yes m'aam, Grandma, that's it alright. What would I do without my Grandma? And my God?