The Meannes of Death

My Grammie is dying.
She is my mom's mom and was definitely the closest grandparent I had growing up. We spent many many nights at her house; she baked the best homemade brown bread you've ever tasted; she made stewed rhubarb with fresh biscuits, and fiddleheads with fried salmon.

She prayed for me every day and often shared about what she was learning from the Bible. She made certain that my way to Bible camp was provided for each summer, and she sewed dresses for me every spring. My favorite blankets, to this day, are the ones she quilted for me out of pieces of old pajamas and scraps from my spring dresses. She was lively, spirited, hard-working and oh so kind. We were a lively bunch of grandkids, and I know we frustrated her at times, but her scoldings were mere tisk-tisks and seasoned with unconditional love. She was the picture of grace.

Today she is lying in her home, in a hospital bed waiting for death. It will be near her quickly now, and as we've visited over the last few days, watching her pass from this life to the next, I'm reminded of the meanness of death. Certainly death is not what God originally designed for Adam and Eve in the garden. There is no treatment to be given, no hope of recovery, no medications to reverse the illness, just waiting. Death steals dignity. It reduces mankind to our weakest state and makes us beg for mercy. Pain medications dull these final days for her, making her more comfortable, but one can't help but ask for death to have mercy and come as she gasps for air and chokes on every breath. Somewhere in there, her eyes recognized me just 5 days ago, and today there is nothing- just a glassy stare.

So my prayer tonight is that God would take her home to be with him. We love her and we will surely miss her, but oh how she deserves the loving arms of her Father.