It Is Well

I have been attempting to write this blog for about 6 months.   I've written it over and over in my mind countless times but when push comes to shove, I simply haven't been able to put it on paper.  Today, on this last day of 2015, I feel like I should push through and do this because this was really the biggest event of my year.  Today I'm going to write about my Grandma.  There is a LOT I can write about her.  I could write pages and pages about her.  Today, I'm choosing to write about the hard part, when I lost her.  I know some are probably wondering why I am choosing to write about this, but I just feel the need to.  I guess it's part of the grieving process.  

 We knew she didn't have long, but weren't sure yet how long she had.  We came down for Memorial weekend.  At this point, she was still talking and had her whit.  She was making jokes and making us laugh.  Our family reunion was that weekend as well and I wanted every moment with her that I could have. Before I came, my sister had asked me if I would sing for Grandma at the nursing home.  Of course I was honored.  That Saturday, I didn't know what to expect, but about 40 or 50 people showed up in the main room of the nursing home.  It was an awkward set up and I'm not the best pianist so it was awkward as I was clunking through hymns facing a wall. Out of nowhere a distant cousin I've never met comes in and she's an amazing pianist and vocalist. She played the piano and we sang all kinds of songs for Grandma.  She sat there, smile on her face, singing and clapping along.  We closed that time with the Old Rugged Cross.  As the reality of the words of that song and the situation we were facing hit, I couldn't continue.  I have to admit though, that I was disappointed with that day.  It was fun and I loved singing for Grandma and had fun singing with Anita (the distant cousin), but I felt like there was something else I needed to do for Grandma. 

The next day, she seemed to really start declining quickly.  On Monday, we had to return home but I had planned on returning to Sikeston in two weeks.  We went to the nursing home and no one was there.  That within itself was a miracle because we tried to have someone there nonstop.  Grandma was sitting in her recliner with her oxygen hooked up.  She wasn't very responsive and wasn't able to speak much coherently. I sat there and held her hand.  She didn't say much.  I knew this was probably my last chance to be with her.  As I got up to leave, tears streaming, I went to tell her goodbye.  She grabbed my hand hard and pulled me down.  Over the next few minutes, she cried and told me she didn't want to leave me.  I've heard that people near death need permission to leave from their loved ones.  In retrospect, I think she was asking that and I think she was also needing some comfort.  I hugged her, kissed her, rubbed her hair and told her it was going to be okay and it was okay to let go.  I told her that while I wanted her to stay with me forever, I knew she had something much greater ahead and that I don't want her here in pain, I want her pain free with her Savior and reunited with her son.  She told me over and over how much she loved me and how proud of me she was.  We all cried, knowing this was the last time we would see her.  Suddenly, she sat up and with strength in her voice, she asked Michaella to come to her.  Michaella stood up and went to her side and took her hand.  Grandma looked at her and told her that she had only been part of our family for a short time but she loved her just as much as any of her other grandkids.  She told her how proud she was of her and how much she loved her.  She told her that I would need her to help me through this after she was gone.  She said "Marti thinks she's strong, but I know better."  She then told Randy to take care of her girl.  We all sat there hugging and loving on her after that.  I promised her I would see her again in a couple of weeks. She kept saying no, it's too far of a drive, but I told her I WOULD be back.

That was my last coherent conversation with her.  And I will treasure it always.  

Shortly thereafter my sister came in as we were leaving.  I told her I would be back before the week was over because she would be gone.  She said no, she still has months.  I said no, this is it.  
We travelled back to Neosho and I finished out the last week of school with a heavy heart. I wanted to be home with her so much. That Friday night after school was out I went to a women's retreat at church.  While there, my sister called and told me I needed to come home because it wouldn't be long.  The next morning (a Saturday), I drove home by myself (Randy had to work and Michaella had something else).  

I drove straight to the nursing home and ran in to her bedside.  Mom said I had to get in her face and tell her who I was.  I did, and she briefly opened her eyes.  I said, "Grandma, it's Marti. I told you I'd come back."  At this point the cancer had spread to her brain and she couldn't speak.  She opened her eyes wide and squeezed my hand.  She knew I was there.  For the next several hours I sat at her bedside holding her hand.  She wouldn't let go.  If I did get up, someone else would hold her hand.  SHe needed to know we were there.  
The day was busy with family in and out, paying their last respects.  More than anything, I wanted just a little bit of alone time with her.  I prayed God would give me one more chance to be alone with her.  Late that night, everyone had gone except my Aunt Dianna and my Great Aunt Wanda.  I was still at her bedside holding her hand.  The nurses had come in and changed her diaper and she was in a lot of pain and couldn't get comfortable.  The pain was etched all of her face and even with morphine often, it was not easing much.  

After the nurse came in and adjusted her again to try to make her comfortable, I asked Grandma if I could sing to her.  She squeezed my hand and I sang every song I could think of for the next hour. I probably butchered the words of several old hymns, but that didn't matter.  It was what I wanted to be my last gift for her.  I wanted to make her feel comfortable and feel peace.  She eventually fell asleep ,for the last time, and I finished with "It Is Well."  

The next morning, we knew the end was coming soon. My mom, sisters, niece Kayla, aunt and I were all at her bedside.  I've never watched someone pass so I was scared, but I knew it was coming.  It was a very private, intimate moment so I won't share details, but we watched her take her last breath.  We were all crying but suddenly my sister Sara started laughing a bit.  We all looked at her and she said "She just saw Jesus face to face.  She's not in pain anymore."  

God gave us all peace.  Grandma's last gift to us was the knowledge that she was indeed with her Lord and Savior.  I know some people see "religion" as a crutch, but I believe beyond a shadow of a doubt that there is a Heaven and there is a Hell.  Jesus is the way, the truth and the life and Grandma chose Jesus and as a result, she is in Heaven with Him and someday, I will be too.  She didn't live a perfect life by any means.  She didn't always live a godly life and made some poor decisions along the way (don't we all!), but she eventually figured it out.  

I miss her more than words can say. The first Thanksgiving and Christmas have been very difficult.  I have regrets, as we all do, about not making enough of an effort as an adult to spend more time with her, to call more, etc.  I can waller in those regrets and that would honestly be very easy to do, but I choose not to.  I can learn from them and make more effort to spend time with my loved ones now.  
The best way I can honor her is to live my life to the fullest and keep memories of her alive and spread the love of Christ to all I encounter.  I'm thankful for her life and the relationship we had.  

1. 
   
2. It Is Well by Horatio Spafford 
3. 
   
4. When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
   When sorrows like sea billows roll;
   Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
   It is well, it is well with my soul.
   • Refrain:
     It is well with my soul,
     It is well, it is well with my soul.
5. Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
   Let this blest assurance control,
   That Christ hath regarded my helpless estate,
   And hath shed His own blood for my soul.
6. My sin—oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!—
   My sin, not in part but the whole,
   Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
   Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!
7. For me, be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live:
   If Jordan above me shall roll,
   No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life
   Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul.
8. But, Lord, ’tis for Thee, for Thy coming we wait,
   The sky, not the grave, is our goal;
   Oh, trump of the angel! Oh, voice of the Lord!
   Blessed hope, blessed rest of my soul!
9. And Lord, haste the day when the faith shall be sight,
   The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
   The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
   Even so, it is well with my soul.

I ❤️ Reading

I am a learner. It's my top strength according to the strengths Finder quiz I took at Evangel University.
I love reading.
I love words.
I love language and linguistics.
I love etymology.
I mildly enjoy writing but it's not my favorite.

It's a good thing I love all of the above since I'm getting a master's degree in literacy.
I'm not perfect.  I make mistakes, yet I do love all of the above.

In my studies as an educator and a graduate student, I've done a lot of self-reflection.  What makes one person a lover of books and words and another not?  That's a loaded question and there's been a ton of brain research done.  I won't bore you with that. We'll just say there's a lot of theories and a lot of research.  A lot of it points to family life.  Now before I go further, please know that I'm not pointing fingers at people, especially parents.  Im sharing my experiences and some of what I've researched.
How you are raised can effect your ability and love of reading.
Let me share with you my experience.
My mom is an avid reader.  She read every day, often for hours.  My dad, while not an avid reader, read to me every night. Some of my earliest memories are my dad and I reading together. I was about 4 the first time I remenber reading a Little Christmas Golden Book by myself.  Granted, I probably had it memorized, but I did know when to turn the pages and I knew that each group of letters stood for a word.
I don't remember learning to read. I've heard that's pretty normal for people who were early readers.   I remember reading in school was easy and fun. (Math...not so much...).  Spelling has always been a piece of cake.
So back to the point, my parents loved reading. Whether they recognized the importance of it I do not know.  But it was important. My favorite memories of my mom were making regular trips to the Book Bug in Sikeston. Mom was constantly trading in books to get more. She would give me a set amount and I could go buy books. We didn't frequent the library often because we bought and traded so often. I also remembering being obsessed with Babysitter's Club. There was a new bookstore in the mall and mom would let me go get a new book. Used books were amazing...but a NEW book?? I was on cloud 9.
I have incredibly rich memories of living in a literate rich house.   Not only did we read books, my dad was an incredible story teller.  He would tell stories of his childhood.  I still have images in my mind from the stories he told.  I would visualize everything as he told the stories.  I almost feel that they are my memories because of the vivid descriptions he gave. I can picture my grandma and great grandma (whom I never met) feeding hobos off the train. I can picture my dad watching the movies with no sound on the outdoor theater across from their farm. I can see, in black and white, my dad chasing the ice wagon.  I can picture the farm he lived on in great detail.  If I ever saw these things in real life, because my visualization of them is so vivid, I'd probably be disappointed.

There are four aspects of language: reading, writing, listening and speaking.  My parents read with me, encouraged me to write, listened to me and had me to listen their stories and we engaged in spoken conversation.  Unknowingly, they filled my life with all aspects of language.   My life was filled with rich experiences. We weren't monetarily rich but I lived and learned through books.

Right here I could go into the effects of poverty on literacy, but I won't. Research Ruby Payne if you want to see staggering, scary information on that.

So what am I getting at in all of this?  What's the point?

Parents, read with your kids.  Let them see you reading.  Talk with them, not at them. Share your life stories with them.  Buy cheap used books or visit the library.  Converse!  Do it for your kids. Let them see you loving it and they will more than likely love reading. Let them experience the world through books.  Build their knowledge bank through reading.  It really does open up the  world for themthem.