Throughout my childhood and teen years, my maternal grandmother, Nanny, was my rock. She lived with us on and off from the mid-80s up to 2005, when she moved into her apartment. The last time I'd visited her, she was happy and alert. She gave Julia and me boxes full of clothes and shoes and assured Julia that she would inherit her collection of little angel figurines. When we left, I hugged her goodbye and told her I loved her and we talked about meeting for lunch. She said she would order Chinese food and I could come to her apartment on my lunch break or the weekend.
But she went into the hospital a few days later, where the doctors discovered she was terminal and gave her six months to live. She didn't even last six weeks. I was supposed to see her on a Sunday, but she died on Saturday morning. My mom had seen her the day before she passed, knew she was suffering, and told her it was OK to let go. Mom wasn't in the wrong; Nanny was tired and ready to leave this life. But, perhaps selfishly, I do wish she would have waited just one more day.
The weeks immediately following her death were a whirlwind: coming to my aunt's house immediately after the phone call, just before the coroner took Nanny away; the wake with the gathering of friends and family I hadn't seen in ages; the funeral where I'd sung her favorite song; sorting through photos and belongings and memories; wondering if mental paralysis was completely outside the realm of normal grieving; constantly reminding myself that the world wasn't about to grind to a halt to mourn along with me, as much as I wished it would at least slow down.
On Sunday, I was digging through a pile of papers, and I found a birthday card Nanny had sent me. I paused to read it, recollecting a time many years ago when I considered myself blessed that I'd never lost anyone close to me. I pondered how many experiences I've been forced to relegate to the past tense: having a father, having perfect health, being someone's true love, and now, having a grandmother. But, I thought, such is the nature of growing older. I put the card in my purse, and headed out to where I knew I would find solace.
I was a few minutes late, but undeterred, I ducked inside and sat in the back. The sermon centered on Esau selling his birthright for a mess of pottage, and on the notion of instant gratification - how often we choose to live in the moment, forsaking long-term gain for the sake of short-term satisfaction. Individuals who seek to mute their pain with drugs or other substances. Government officials who sell out human beings for profit and power. And I reflected on these things. I thought of all the times I'd found a smug sense of righteousness arguing with friends and strangers online about how ignorant I thought they were. I thought of the time I'd wasted on avoiding reality instead of confronting my problems, or ruminating on things I couldn't possibly change. When we bowed our heads to pray, the words of the Serenity Prayer seemed to whisper right to the core of my being: "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference."
I spent some time in fellowship with new acquaintances and familiar friends, then took a walk out to the prayer garden. The foliage had taken on drab winter tones; the pond bore crinkles of ice patches. I was greeted with the calls of chickadees and blue jays. I leaned against a nearby tree and took a deep breath, letting the calm of the afternoon settle into my soul.
Suddenly, a flash of red caught my eye. Two cardinals, a male and a female, had just landed in the brush on the left side of the pond.
I didn't have much time to activate the camera feature on my phone before they flew out of sight, but I managed to snap a picture as they were gathering branches and building what appeared to be a nest.
I marveled for a moment at how those little birds stood out from the gray of the sleeping woods, refusing to blend in with the scenery. They were, in the literal and metaphorical sense, the bright spot in an otherwise murky backdrop. Indeed, having appeared in the prayer garden, a little message from heaven.
I can't say for sure what it was, but it brightened my soul just as it brightened those woods.
Life indeed goes on.
