It’s been almost a year since your life with us here was so unexpectedly snuffed out. I’ve missed you. We have just passed what would have been your 89th birthday. Like any one of us, you liked to have your birthday remembered. And we did remember it and you and talked about our memories and musings at our Dad-less virtual gathering.
We were about a month into the global pandemic when you died, and you were doing well with the restrictions. But it’s been a year now. It’s been said more than once how this year would have been a real trial for you! I remember how, in the early days of lockdown, when Mariah and I delivered the groceries to you and Mom, you and Mom would be sitting inside the window playing the marble game. We set the groceries to the door, and you passed the cash for them out the window. It was all novelty at that point, but it would have gotten old quick for you.
You loved interactions with people, and the telephone was an important means of communication for you and your friends. As the years went on, and as I came to realize just how extroverted you were, I could understand more the need to connect with people. It also became very evident how much your own family meant to you. You mellowed with age, and I’m glad that we all got to see that side of you. I saw a sensitivity in you that I suspect you didn’t quite know how to navigate.
We had our rough patches, you and I. There was the time I was hanging out with my boyfriend late one night in the Freiburger’s grocery store parking lot and you drove out to tell me it was time to come home. You thought I was too young to be going out with someone. We conflicted with church-related expectations when I was a teenager. I suspect we were a classic case of likeness seeing (but not actually seeing) likeness and reacting in kind. It’s with gratitude that I can say we didn’t stay in those rough patches forever, but that we stitched other patches of shared interests and family loyalty into our relationship. That boyfriend became my husband and the two of you had many invigorated conversations about who lived on what farm fifty years ago and what tractor they drove and where they live now and how they fit into the “freindschaft” (family tree). We came to a place of respecting one another’s decisions around faith and such like, and the seed that you and Mom planted for me continues to burrow its roots into unknown depths.
I would love to drive into Waterloo on a Tuesday and pick you and Mom up for the bi-weekly run to do errands and get groceries. You would probably ask if we can swing by Cranson’s Henry’s to drop off a book and, of course, there was always the coffee for the drive home. Fred and I would like to ask you about neighbour Henry’s memory of your Dad (Grampa Ezra) selling donuts at the “Mark” in his white shirt sleeves. But that is not to be. And honestly, other than it would be fun to hear how you’re keeping busy, I wouldn’t wish you back. You lived a full and active life. I know there were more places you would have liked to see, more books to have read, and more great-grandbabies to see, but you’ve been birthed to something else.
I don’t know what life on the other side looks like, but I do hope it’s more than harps ‘n’ hymns or you will be going stir-crazy. “Antsy-pantsy” is what Mom used to call your restlessness. I can see you sidling up to Saint Peter and gently nudging him with your stubbed finger to suggest an activity, or a change in scenery, or even how the facilities could be improved with this or that little tweak. The menu no doubt is one of your interests too! I can see you recommending that they serve egg cheese with fresh maple syrup as that is a bit of heaven.
As I remember you and miss you, I’m eternally grateful that we persevered in getting to know each other and letting each other be who we were/are. The things that you started in this life carry on in the lives of your children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. It’s a rich heritage, a rich legacy. I do hope there’s opportunity for you too in whatever it looks like on the other side to carry on with your work and ideas.
“Rest in peace” is the common platitude for the deceased. I don’t know.. I mean obviously I want rest for you, peace for you, but I also want that liveliness of yours to be preserved and renewed. There is so much mystery around birth and death, and I will simply have to keep watching for the glimpses that living can bring.
So, happy first beyond-life-on-earth birthday to you. I hope you get pie. And as the earth wakes up in another Spring, so too may the seeds that you and your life sowed, continue their growth and renewal.
Much love,
Judy
