a hopeful requiem

When I was a little girl, my grandmother and I would make Jell-o and custard for my grandfather.  She was about five foot two, and he was something like six foot four.  When I'd sleep over at their house, my grandpa would serve me Total cereal with Oreos on the side.  There were many nights I spent in a little inflatable boat next to my grandmother's couch (where she slept) on her houseboat.  She had some curious little scissors for cutting parsley for tabouli, and an irrepressible spirit.

My grandmother died when I was seven years old.  She didn't live to meet my beloved or my bambini, or to attend the piano recitals I gave in college, or to read this blog.  Somehow, though, I think she sees it all and knows probably better than I do how it all fits together to make the person I'm called to be. 

There's a picture from my infancy of my grandfather holding me while he plays bridge.  The expression on my face would seem to indicate my disdain for the cards he'd been dealt.  A few years later, he watched me ride a bicycle from the back of Wal-Mart (maybe it was TG&Y) to the front -- sure I couldn't do it, so he said  (I think I was five or so), but probably not surprised when I did.  My grandfather saw to it that I had my first set of golf clubs when I showed an interest in playing -- not just driving the golf cart when he played.  He died when I was fifteen.  I drove his car for a while after I turned sixteen (and after we aired it out really well, though it still retained a certain humidor ambiance).   I wonder what he would have said to my beloved upon meeting him for the first time or learning of our marriage plans.  I have no doubt he'd have been beaming with pride at our wedding.  I'm sure he was.  I just couldn't see him. 

Sometimes I catch a whiff of tobacco or spot a Jell-o box in the grocery store and think of them.  There are countless other memory triggers that bring them to mind.  Then it's like they're right here with me.

My Chicago grandfather recorded the telephone conversation he and Grannie and my father (their son) had when I was born.  My dad and I made many trips to be with him during the illness that ended his life too soon when I was five.  These trips and many afterward allowed me to forge the deep connection I have with my family members who live so far away.  There are times when I catch a glimpse of him in my father.  Grannie sees it, too.  And my lads love some of the funny little songs my dad's dad cooked up in jest, as was his inclination.  They spring to my mind at the most opportune times and serve to bring some levity to a situation (sometimes sorely needed if sleep has been in short order that day).

I heard my Aunt Robin's laughter emanating from my sister last week.  When I said to my mom, "she sounded like Aunt Robin just then!", my mom nodded her head emphatically in agreement.  "I know!" she said.  

And then there is my college friend Jake, who passed away nearly two years ago after a ten year battle with cancer.  Many of the quirky little phrases and mannerisms I sometimes employ come from him.  He stood backstage along with another close friend of mine at my junior piano recital hearing (given for the piano faculty to determine my readiness -- or not -- to perform the recital as planned), came to visit me when I worked for the orchestra, and taught me much about appreciating friends, the gift of the present moment, how to make popcorn on the stove, and the importance of laughter. 

I think about these family members and friends who have departed this life, as well as those of people close to me who surely miss and think of their dearly departed as much as I do.  To have lost them in this life is cause for sadness and grief.  To think of them now beyond the reach of pain or struggle and able to watch over us from above gives me even greater hope and peace.  Sometimes it seems their presence is palpable.  It is in the sights, sounds, and smells that summon up their memories.  I hope and trust I will see them again one day. 

On the liturgical calendar, today is All Souls Day.  We honor our dearly departed loved ones today, praying for God's mercy upon their souls, and for their eternal happiness with Him in heaven. 

So for these dear ones and those I haven't mentioned here, I pray
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord,
and let perpetual light shine upon them.
May their souls and the souls of all the faithful departed,
through the mercy of God, 
rest in peace.

Amen.