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In fact, Grandma seems to be doing better with this transition from the rest of us. Before I went to the house last week to visit for the last time and to help pack, I dreaded that trip more than I ever have before. It practically was like a funeral, and I found myself grieving just as much as I did when I said goodbye to Grandpa. As I walked in the back door, roamed around the basement, and slept in the little bedroom, memories from the past 31 years came flooding back to me at an overwhelming pace. To me and many of my relatives, this was not just a house made of cement and wood, it was a source of comfort and stability -- always knowing that no matter what chaotic things were going on in your own life, you could come back to this place and feel at home.
Growing up in the town of Moscow, my cousin Amanda and I recently mused, we didn't realize how good we had it. To me it's the kind of all-American small town that you read about in books, and I thought this was normal as a kid. In the fall, the proliferation of maple trees paint the town rich hues of gold and red, and in the spring, East City Park hosts the Renaissance Fair (which was really only a small craft and food fair, but full of fun memories). My mom would usually take me to my grandparents' neighborhood for trick-or-treating on Halloween, since it increased my likelihood of yielding plenty of candy treasure. My cousins and I spent hours at Grandma and Grandpa's house, playing dress-up, working on jigsaw puzzles, and playing the "Marble Game" and "King's Corners."
Once we moved to Colorado when I was 13, visiting Moscow during summer and Christmas vacations was a treat, and it made the house even more precious to me. My grandmother has always been the consummate entertainer and hostess, so every day (not just holidays) was made special and usually involved an assortment of sweets. My family and I recently joked that when you go to Grandma's house, you immediately start craving cookies -- it's like a Pavlovian dog response! She was a master at creating meaningful memories for her family, many of which took place in that house.
My senior year in college, I returned to Moscow and attended University of Idaho on exchange. While it was fun reconnecting with my roots, I regret not spending more time with family -- I was just a busy college student. I remember thinking then, as I visited my grandparents' home, that I didn't know what I would do once they and that house were gone. It was such a painful thought that I could hardly bear it. Isn't it funny that even though we know something will be inevitable at some point, we still think we can avoid it if we just bury it in the recesses of our brains? I knew this day would come, and now it has. As my mom and I drove to Moscow last week, I was crying so hard that I was hyperventilating. It took a great deal of effort just to keep breathing deeply and to not burst into tears multiple times a day.
I knew I had two choices: to face this pain and feel it, which would lead to God's healing, or to stuff it and refuse to accept it, which would lead to unresolved hurt and who knows what else. I took a video and many pictures of the house, which I know will help once the memories begin to fade and I fear that I will forget what it looked like. My relatives were all grieving in their own ways, but we worked together and laughed together. It was a special time that I believed bonded our family in a beautiful way. I never had a chance to go through the healthy, natural steps of grieving when my mom's parents' house burned, and now I had that opportunity.
I'm grateful to still have Grandma, and to be able to visit her in Seattle in the future. I know that the deaths I am facing right now are my Grandpa's, and the death of future memories and experiences in the house they shared for over 50 years. But out of death often comes new life, and I am reminded that people are the true treasures, not physical places or possessions. I know that our family will have to work harder to connect and be more intentional about strengthening our relationships, but I'm looking forward to it.
I'm not done crying over the loss, nor will I be tomorrow. But I want to go through the grieving process in a healthy way. Only God can fill the empty places in our hearts, and bring beauty out of the ashes of our lives.
There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under heaven:
a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain,
a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away...
Ecclesiastes 3:1-6
Goodbye.
