A Life Well Lived

My grandmother passed away last week, at the age of 89.

It is a difficult task to try to express in words what she meant to me. She was the only grandmother I ever knew - my paternal grandmother passed away before I was born, before my parents were even married, though I knew her through stories, as my two grandmothers were best friends and that is, in fact, how my parents met as children, but that’s another story altogether...

I have so many fond memories of summer vacations at Grandma’s house as a child, as a teenager. She worked tirelessly to please us children, baking all kinds of goodies, making sure we enjoyed leisurely, long summer days of play. As I grew, she also grew in my eyes and became much more to me than a grandmother. She became a woman I admired and looked up to, and held up as a high standard for my own life, an example I wanted to emulate. She placed before me a model difficult to follow, this woman with the humble-grateful heart, kind countenance, soft-spoken voice, contagious laughter, and ever-wise words. I now know that I was truly privileged to call her my Grandmother.

This woman was always quick to praise her husband, and always full of gratitude to her God. Not once did I hear her complain. She had lived through so many hardships in her life, and persevered through each and every one of them. It must not have been easy with your husband working as a barber by day and in the mines by night, coming down with pneumonia as a result and being sent away for a year-long sanatorium treatment, while you stayed home with 4-5 kids to care for on your own. It must not have been easy to watch German soldiers stand your husband by the wall of your house, threatening to shoot him if he didn’t tell them some information he did not know... It must not have been easy treading through deep snow in the dead of winter with a baby in your arms, having to help bury a soldier killed by the enemy camp in your kitchen (!) – so when the fellow soldiers return, the death isn’t blamed on you. This woman, whose spirit was not changed for the worse by the hardships she lived through, but for the better, becoming an example of humility, peace, perseverance and love, was greatly admired by her family, including me. Knowing that I come from this lineage of greatness awoke a desire in me to aspire to greatness, a greatness of heart; seeing Christ in my grandmother stirred a love for Christ in me – even before I myself made a commitment to Christ.

She was my grandmother, this woman we playfully called “The Humorous” (while we called Grandpa “The Mischievous”), for she had a quick wit and could turn a phrase like no other. The caliber of her person was nothing less than awe-inspiring. Even in her old age, as her body succumbed to weakness, her spirit never gave way; she had a deep abiding joy, a peace about her only known to those who commune with the One Living God, and wisdom on her lips, always.

To say that she was a good woman is an understatement; she was one of the best people this world has ever seen – along with Grandpa. They truly deserved and complemented each other, and if possible, made each other even better. They lived together in marriage for 68 happy years, and by their own humble admission and their children’s memory – not once did a fight/harsh word pass between them. They raised 7 children together, who then expanded to 13 grandchildren, and 21 great-grandchildren. As the family grew over the years, each addition brought her and Grandpa great joy. Each family member was blessed to be lifted daily in their prayers.

She went into the hospital 2 weeks prior to her death and she felt it. She knew it. She expressed it in these words to her loved ones: “From this place, I am going home.”

She didn’t mean home to her devoted 94-year-old husband, but she meant the Everlasting Home she had longed for all her life, the place where the King of Kings awaits her. She left this world while three of her daughters sang Gospel songs to her at her hospital bedside. As they sang, she breathed her last breath and met her King face to face that very night.

There is an emptiness for those of us who are left behind, for we are lacking in her sweet laughter and wise words, the ability to wrap our arms, just one more time, around this beautiful woman, who through her earthly walk with Christ matured into – exactly as promised by Him – a very real image of Christ.

But the Christian faith is not a mere hope of a better tomorrow, a wish for an everlasting home. The Christian faith by which we live is reality, true heart knowledge – the reality of things we do not see, the sure knowledge that God’s promise stands concerning the future of those who love Him. We, who have trusted Him, are certain of what awaits us; more certain are we of this fact than of the fact that we’re alive here today. We know where and with whom our sweet grandmother is and with true joy we can say: "until we meet again."

The last time we saw Grandma was this past fall. Caleb met her twice in his two years of life. We will always treasure the pictures and videos that were taken on these occasions.

Here are a few of these, so we can again remember.

2007 Summer

2008 Fall

To the memory of a hill

This is the still-existing snowy winter view behind our house.

(I cannot show you what the view used to look like. There used to be a dense forest all the way up that hill. It was the home of lots of deer, squirrels, and opossums. You might notice that now there's an ugly black tarp stretching halfway up the hill, and behind it... no forest. The mean people killed our forest this past fall and destroyed our hill. Next winter, this view will be even more ruined, for they're planning to build on top of that hill. In the summer, there's still a jungle between us and them, but sadly, the lovely winter view will be lost forever.)

Summer!

Right about now the cherries are ripe on the tree in my parents’ backyard and the cherry-picking season has begun. Through my college years, mid-June was when I flew home for the summer. Right on time, like a bird flies south in the winter. Each year, my summer began with the cherries. How I loved arriving in our little town, entering that backyard, seeing the tree heavy with the weight of the fruit, and taking it upon myself to lead the effort to bring that fruit down! What wonderful feeling it was to climb up on the tree, scraping elbow and knee at times, and put forth the physical effort needed for the job! And what worthy cherries those were for the picking! Never have I seen such perfect cherries! (Much better than those pictured above.) It was always good to know that I was needed, that my arrival was timely, or who knows what would happen to the cherries! (My parents had a way of making us feel useful. Of course, this was more than 10 years ago, and they somehow managed the cherries without me all these years.)

I will miss the cherries once again this year, but will make it home to Hungary later on in the summer. I can hardly wait! But right now, I am reminiscing about the cherries of my youth. And wondering if those same cherries will make my son just as happy one day, when he arrives in mid-June to visit his aging grandparents, so he can pick the famous fruit for them and welcome summer.