A few weeks ago, when Grandmother knew she wasn't going to get better she called each of her family members in. I'll never forget the words she spoke to me that night at her bedside. She held my hand and said "I'm so proud of you, Christan. You are such a wonderful mother and you have a beautiful family. You've made me so proud and I'm so happy the Barnett family has you in it." These words broke me and the tears began to flow down my cheeks. She went on to tell me more about how much she loved me and loved my children. I never felt more accepted into a family not my own than I did in that moment.
In the last few weeks Grandmother was alive I visited her frequently, multiple times a week even. I never told her when I was coming, which looking back may have irritated her- she liked to plan her day. Nevertheless, one day I showed up and she was a bit in a tizzy, frustrated with her nasal cannula and wanting to find a certain grey scarf. We searched all over, her getting out of breath the longer it took and me, desperately wanting to find this scarf so she would be content. She stated over and over, "it's gray. I know it's here somewhere." Finally I found a brown scarf and asked if it was the one and she said "oh that's it!" I debated on whether or not to let her know it wasn't gray, but before I could decide she said, "that's not gray is it?" And we both had a little giggle over it. She turned to me and said, "how do you always know when to be here? You always come at the perfect time." It warmed my heart. Honestly, it convicted me. I hadn't come at times that were extremely intentional, I only came when I could squeeze it in my day's schedule.
Looking back the moment convicts me even more. I know plenty of people would say, "you did plenty!", but how much is really enough in someone's last days? There wasn't anything I wouldn't have done for her.
After losing my uncle suddenly just a couple months ago, then starting to work for a hospice company, I'm so reminded of how we are all dying- every day our bodies decompose a little more. Our days ARE numbered. At Grandmother's memorial service Harrison read a poem that she liked called "the Dash". It talked about the dash in between the date you're born and the date you die and what one makes of that time. Again, a reminder of the value of each day we are given. I have never appreciated life more than in the last few months as I have come face to face with death itself.
Grandmother- if somehow you can hear these words- I promise to make each day count. I promise to make my dash matter. I promise to love my family and cherish them- until I meet you on the golden streets, where the eternal dawn shines. I love you so much.
