What Can Make Me Whole Again?
One of the really wonderful things about grief is how it cracks you wide apart, makes your calloused, crusty heart break open. Yes, it's painful, but oh, how refreshing! You feel like you can breathe again, for the first time in a long time. You notice that there is air. And how fine it is to draw it sweetly into your lungs.
Last Friday, after I got the call that my Grandmother was gone, I was in that fog of disbelief you enter right after you get such calls. My whole being was so heavy with loss that I just couldn't see any of the good in this situation. I knew in my head that my Grandmommy was in a better place, but that reality seemed very distant and the reality that I would never see her again seemed all too near.
But Sunday we got to see her and say a private goodbye. And then on Monday, we had the funeral. And I was gratefully amazed at the power of ritual to jumpstart healing. Here are some things that helped:
1. Love, spelled F-O-O-D. My grandmother lived out in the country and went to a little country church. With little old ladies who bake. Apple pie, chocolate pie, coconut cake, German chocolate cake. Squash and corn casserole. Homemade ham biscuits. My aunt's house was a revolving door of little old ladies bearing Reynold's Wrap. And then, before the visitation, they set up the church fellowship hall for us to eat dinner together, all the extended family. Barbecue, Brunswick stew, slaw, potato salad, hush puppies, corn sticks, fried chicken. And, of course, more cake.
And you know what? It helped. We just didn't have to think about what to eat. Or when. The food was just there, all the time. And the ladies who prepared it didn't ask anything of us, except to eat.
2. Viewing the body. I wish we still had the old southern custom of a wake, where you take turns with your family keeping vigil over the body of your loved one for 24-48 hours before the funeral. I know there are some who do not wish to be in the presence of a body without a soul, and I would never force that upon someone else. But I found that it was easier to believe that my Grandmommy was gone once I saw her dressed up for her funeral. The body resting in that casket was in no way my Grandmother. It looked very like her... but of course her beauty came from her living soul, so without it her body resembled a wax likeness of her. And I only had a few moments alone with this body, but I would have liked more time. If we still had wakes, I'd have volunteered for the early morning session, say, 1-3 a.m. That way I could have talked a while with her, no one else to hear me. I really did say everything I needed to say while she was still alive... yet it was comforting to me to say all that stuff again to her body, even though I knew I could say it anywhere and she'd still hear me.
3. The funeral, which was truly a celebration of Grandmommy's life. On the morning of, I arrived at my aunt's house right on time to get geared up for the procession. Before I even got in the door, my mother came out to meet me. "Your brother and K (his wife) are going to play and sing at the funeral today," she said. "Would you and your sisters sing with them?"
Oh, boy. I never saw this coming. Singing in the face of death is one sure way to make me cry... music cuts straight through your defenses, doesn't it? My mom knows this about me, too. I stared at her for a minute and finally said, "Can I wait and decide when I'm there? I don't want to get up in front of a whole crowd of people if I'm blubbering." She agreed, but added, "Your grandmother loved to hear you girls sing. She would have loved this."
Well, she was right. Growing up, whenever we visited my grandparents, we all had to bring our intstruments and sing for her. She loved gospel, so that's what we did - my dad and brother on guitars, me on banjo, one sis on fiddle, the other just singing. We learned to harmonize with each other and it was fun, and it became a bit of a ritual. Whenever we were visiting, we knew we'd sit around and make music together.
I walked into the kitchen, and my brother and his wife started practicing. My sisters came in and we all just listened, at first. Then we began to join in, and we found we could do it, sort of... as long as we didn't look at each other. We finished, and I thought, well, maybe. But I know myself, and I just don't see being composed enough in the actual moment to pull this off.
But you know, there's grace for situations like these. At the church, which is a beautiful old country church, wrapped in stone on the outside and timber frame on the inside, with gorgeous stained glass windows, we proceeded in. The pastor stood up and read some Scripture - the ones about how Jesus is preparing a place for us, and our hearts need not be afraid. Then he motioned to my brother, who got up and strapped on his guitar. Then, as one, my sisters and I stood up and joined him.
And we did it. We all got up there, kind of circled around my brother, and sang "Nothing but the Blood of Jesus." I didn't think about loss, or grief, or death. I thought about those summer evenings when we'd sit around her living room and sing till we ran out of songs. And I felt, not physically, but in my spirit, I felt her grip my hand like she always did. I felt that she was with us, beaming, filled with pride and love and joy.
Then, of course, we wept, but not without comfort. That smart old pastor, he followed up with Psalm 23 and the Lord's Prayer, scriptures you can speak along with even when your heart is broken and your mind is cloudy. Scriptures you can cling to, that remind you of the truth that no one who walked with Jesus ever really dies.
My grandmother loved that service, I think. It had her favorite scriptures, and her favorite people, and her favorite music. It had her grandchildren playing and singing, and it had the truth she believed in featured front and center. It was not about loss, or suffering, or fear, but about truth, and life, and love. Which is what she was about, too.
What can wash away my sins? (Her struggle with sin is done!)
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.
What can make me whole again? (She is whole again, mind, spirit, and body.)
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.
Oh, precious is the flow
That makes me white as snow.
No other fount I know,
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.
(And she is in His presence, forever, part of the great cloud of witnesses cheering us on.)
Last Friday, after I got the call that my Grandmother was gone, I was in that fog of disbelief you enter right after you get such calls. My whole being was so heavy with loss that I just couldn't see any of the good in this situation. I knew in my head that my Grandmommy was in a better place, but that reality seemed very distant and the reality that I would never see her again seemed all too near.
But Sunday we got to see her and say a private goodbye. And then on Monday, we had the funeral. And I was gratefully amazed at the power of ritual to jumpstart healing. Here are some things that helped:
1. Love, spelled F-O-O-D. My grandmother lived out in the country and went to a little country church. With little old ladies who bake. Apple pie, chocolate pie, coconut cake, German chocolate cake. Squash and corn casserole. Homemade ham biscuits. My aunt's house was a revolving door of little old ladies bearing Reynold's Wrap. And then, before the visitation, they set up the church fellowship hall for us to eat dinner together, all the extended family. Barbecue, Brunswick stew, slaw, potato salad, hush puppies, corn sticks, fried chicken. And, of course, more cake.
And you know what? It helped. We just didn't have to think about what to eat. Or when. The food was just there, all the time. And the ladies who prepared it didn't ask anything of us, except to eat.
2. Viewing the body. I wish we still had the old southern custom of a wake, where you take turns with your family keeping vigil over the body of your loved one for 24-48 hours before the funeral. I know there are some who do not wish to be in the presence of a body without a soul, and I would never force that upon someone else. But I found that it was easier to believe that my Grandmommy was gone once I saw her dressed up for her funeral. The body resting in that casket was in no way my Grandmother. It looked very like her... but of course her beauty came from her living soul, so without it her body resembled a wax likeness of her. And I only had a few moments alone with this body, but I would have liked more time. If we still had wakes, I'd have volunteered for the early morning session, say, 1-3 a.m. That way I could have talked a while with her, no one else to hear me. I really did say everything I needed to say while she was still alive... yet it was comforting to me to say all that stuff again to her body, even though I knew I could say it anywhere and she'd still hear me.
3. The funeral, which was truly a celebration of Grandmommy's life. On the morning of, I arrived at my aunt's house right on time to get geared up for the procession. Before I even got in the door, my mother came out to meet me. "Your brother and K (his wife) are going to play and sing at the funeral today," she said. "Would you and your sisters sing with them?"
Oh, boy. I never saw this coming. Singing in the face of death is one sure way to make me cry... music cuts straight through your defenses, doesn't it? My mom knows this about me, too. I stared at her for a minute and finally said, "Can I wait and decide when I'm there? I don't want to get up in front of a whole crowd of people if I'm blubbering." She agreed, but added, "Your grandmother loved to hear you girls sing. She would have loved this."
Well, she was right. Growing up, whenever we visited my grandparents, we all had to bring our intstruments and sing for her. She loved gospel, so that's what we did - my dad and brother on guitars, me on banjo, one sis on fiddle, the other just singing. We learned to harmonize with each other and it was fun, and it became a bit of a ritual. Whenever we were visiting, we knew we'd sit around and make music together.
I walked into the kitchen, and my brother and his wife started practicing. My sisters came in and we all just listened, at first. Then we began to join in, and we found we could do it, sort of... as long as we didn't look at each other. We finished, and I thought, well, maybe. But I know myself, and I just don't see being composed enough in the actual moment to pull this off.
But you know, there's grace for situations like these. At the church, which is a beautiful old country church, wrapped in stone on the outside and timber frame on the inside, with gorgeous stained glass windows, we proceeded in. The pastor stood up and read some Scripture - the ones about how Jesus is preparing a place for us, and our hearts need not be afraid. Then he motioned to my brother, who got up and strapped on his guitar. Then, as one, my sisters and I stood up and joined him.
And we did it. We all got up there, kind of circled around my brother, and sang "Nothing but the Blood of Jesus." I didn't think about loss, or grief, or death. I thought about those summer evenings when we'd sit around her living room and sing till we ran out of songs. And I felt, not physically, but in my spirit, I felt her grip my hand like she always did. I felt that she was with us, beaming, filled with pride and love and joy.
Then, of course, we wept, but not without comfort. That smart old pastor, he followed up with Psalm 23 and the Lord's Prayer, scriptures you can speak along with even when your heart is broken and your mind is cloudy. Scriptures you can cling to, that remind you of the truth that no one who walked with Jesus ever really dies.
My grandmother loved that service, I think. It had her favorite scriptures, and her favorite people, and her favorite music. It had her grandchildren playing and singing, and it had the truth she believed in featured front and center. It was not about loss, or suffering, or fear, but about truth, and life, and love. Which is what she was about, too.
What can wash away my sins? (Her struggle with sin is done!)
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.
What can make me whole again? (She is whole again, mind, spirit, and body.)
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.
Oh, precious is the flow
That makes me white as snow.
No other fount I know,
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.
(And she is in His presence, forever, part of the great cloud of witnesses cheering us on.)
posted by Mamabird @ 6:57 PM
1 Comments:
At 7:37 AM,
Dy said…
God has given us comfort in our time of need - through the fellowship, the feeding of our souls and our bodies. I'm so glad you found comfort and restoration. It sounds like it was a beautiful goodbye to Grandmommy. Thank you for sharing it with us.
Dy
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