My grandmother died this week.
Her name was Geraldine–my dad’s mom. She lived in south Florida. Growing up, I saw her sometimes; but mostly we wrote letters back and forth like crazy. She was 84. She was in decent health. She just went to bed and didn’t wake up.
Personally, I can’t think of any other way I’d rather go.
And while she will most definitely be missed, I can’t say that her passing is the saddest thing weighing on my mind. My biggest concern right now is my daddy–and how he must feel about the loss of his mother.
It doesn’t matter how old I get. I will always–always–want my momma. And it doesn’t matter how old Merrick gets, because he will always, always be my precious baby boy. My little man.
That bond between mother and son is so special; it just is. I cuddle with Merrick on the couch and he gives me hugs after school, his skin is so soft and his hands are so tiny and his hair is so fluffy and he smells like crayons and dogs and grass and dirt and lavender shampoo and PBJs and there is just nothing better. He crawls in bed with me at night and snuggles up beside me and softly pats my face and smiles in his sleep, and there is just nothing better. He’s muddy and messy and cheeky and brilliant and handsome and sweet and there is just. Nothing. Better.
This week I can’t help but think about my grandmother, and my dad, and I wonder if she thought about him like I think about Merrick. I’m sure they cuddled on the couch during thunderstorms; she kissed his boo-boos and wiped tears from his sweaty cheeks, watched him drool in his sleep and dream. She probably played cars and trucks and dinosaurs and she probably went to his football games and cheered for him with more enthusiasm than most people will be able to muster over an entire lifetime. She probably gave him advice that he may or may not have listened to. She probably worried herself crazy about him through high school and college and maybe even beyond.
I can promise you that the woman absolutely beamed with pride whenever I saw her together with her children.
And until her dying day she probably thought there was just nothing better.
So I am praying for the comfort and strength of my family; for my father and his sisters and brothers, and my cousins, who were all able to see her more than I did. And I will hug my children tighter and longer; we’ll read more books and sing more songs, and I’ll teach them everything I know about Jesus, and art, and cooking and cleaning, and playing and loving and giving–because those are the jobs that mothers get the pleasure of doing. And may God let me live to be 84 so that I can enjoy every single moment of them.