Dear Grandma Alice,
You are reading now of a moment in mass, when I thought of you.
The cathedral stretched onward and ahead of me, up and to the heavens of American renaissance-style murals. Outside, rain twinkled on the streets of Savannah, Georgia; percussive, the soft drops on the ceiling could be heard in the pews.
A deacon laid a sermon over the beat, telling of an imaginary conversation between a mother and her eight-month-old son-to-be. He imagined she might tell her baby how wonderful life will be in the world, how full of love and beauty life is. But the unborn baby would argue life in the womb was better. His needs were met; it was safe and warm; why would he pick the great unknown over the safety of his darkness?
Then the deacon imagined the same conversation, 80 or 90 years later. Say the woman birthed the boy, and he grew up into a man. This time, he’s talking to God. Once again, he is called to a new, unknown life beyond his perception; once again, he is reluctant to leave the world he knows.
I remember light streaming like liquid WiFi through the stained glass windows, and I remember my mind wandering, from the homily to thoughts of you, my sweet Grandma Alice. At 97 years old, the past few weeks have been hard on you, with extended stays in the hospital and a brief, heart-stopping moment for my whole family. Your tenacious spirit has rallied, but there are signs of congestive heart failure. I wondered how your conversation with God is going.
Do you remember a few months ago, at your 97th birthday party? You sat surrounded by your progeny, regal as a queen. The arthritic hands you held folded in your lap had molded your 6 children, who passed on your influences to 15 grandchildren and 14 great-grandchildren. Many of the clan attended that party. We ate and drank and colored on the paper tablecloths. It was your 97th birthday, after all – a day to celebrate.
As we walked to the car at party’s end, you curled your gnarled fingers around my arm for support. I could not help myself. I had to ask the question that had been burning in my mind all night.
“Grandma – does it matter to you to make it to 100 years old?”
Margaret, your sister-in-law (who had sat next to you during dinner) achieved the feat a few months prior. It wasn’t out of the question – you drove a car well into your 90s, and you still work the NY Times crossword puzzle in pen. Your hearing isn’t so great, but you still tune in to the pennant races every October, cheering on your St. Louis Cardinals.
“I don’t care at all,” you said to me, smiling. “I just take it day by day – every day is a gift. I’m satisfied with the life I’ve lived.”
The rain stopped beating on the roof, throwing me out of my reverie. I snapped back to a drippy Savannah Sunday morning in the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist. A deacon was preaching, speaking on faith and God’s promised land. The man talking to God is not so different from the unborn baby talking to his mother, he was saying. They both fear what they do not know.
All at once, I realized how foolish my question must have seemed to you. I was thinking like a young man, one obsessed with achievement and opportunity; you think like a grown woman who faces the unknown. Call it faith or nirvana or truth – whichever it is, you hold it in your heart as a stronghold against the fear. I have never known peace and serenity like I have known it in you, Grandma Alice. You understand what it means to live for life’s sake.
The deacon finished his sermon and turned to his seat. The congregation remained in rapt stillness, lost amid the thoughts his words had stirred within us. I do not know what the others thought of or prayed for, but I wanted you to know that I thought of you. It occurred to me that I ought to say thanks, for the example you have set. Though I am preparing to go into a different, less daunting unknown (that which lies beyond university walls), I find strength in your spirit.
Peace be with you. I admire you. I love you.
R.J. Vogt is a senior in College Scholars. He can be reached at [email protected].
