Ever since we laid my grandmother to rest this summer, I’ve been racking my brain trying to find a way to turn it into a thoughtful, meaningful column for this paper.
But, up until now, every time I tried to put pen to paper or hand to keyboard, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.
I couldn’t make my hands admit what my brain didn’t want to know: Janie Ruth, my grandmother, is dead.
I really didn’t let myself cry about it. The day she died, I went down to the creek behind her house and gave myself five minutes to get it all out, because, after that, I needed to pull it together.
My way of dealing with sad things is best described by a wonderful Mark Twain quote:
“The secret source of humor is sorrow.”
I went into my “Happy Warrior” mode, a mode I’ve been told is utterly useless when I would go to console friends.
Throughout the burial process, I looked for the funny any chance I could get.
I tittered at the random names of the various relatives that appeared out of nowhere to descend upon the house.
I guffawed at the sudden appearance of a Braves lapel pin on the corpse at the visitation.
Even at the grave side service, there was humor. The pastor was going on a bit to long and the weather was a bit too warm, so I told my grandmother that she had to do something about one of them or I would leave.
I then felt a breeze begin to blow.
I mentally said to her “That’s not the one I wanted you to take care of.”
I swear I could feel a hand across the back of my head, a slap that came down from heaven.
It’s inherently funny, isn’t it?
The best part was her pastor’s eulogy, as he randomly began to speak in verse and said “Redeemeth liveth” five times when he meant “Redeemer liveth.”
Every time I tell these stories to friends and well-wishers, the characters get more bold and boisterous. The funeral gets funnier.
It’s as if the entire event is nothing but one great big story, and anyone who knows me will tell you I love to tell a good story.
But, there’s a part I leave out.
By focusing on the funny, I get to avoid the death.
After all, it was a minor plot point in an otherwise hilarious story, and I won’t ruin a good story with sadness.
Last week, I moved into her house. It will always be her house, no matter how long I stay there.
I’ve let “my house” slip a few times in conversation, and every single time, I’ve felt guilty about it. It’s entirely irrational, I know, but it’s where my mind goes.
We repainted and fixed up the place, but my mind still goes to what she would think about it.
I firmly believe she’s the sort of stubborn that would haunt a place, so I know she’s there in some sense.
Every day, I wander around a home I live in that is not and will never be completely mine.
I’m OK with that. I don’t think I could really deal with it being altogether mine.
Every time I cook using her stove and her cookware, she’ll be there, telling me to watch what I’m doing.
Every family holiday meal, she’ll still be at her symbolic head of the table, barking orders at the rest of us.
I can’t deal with a reality in which she isn’t there. Not now.
I’m not strong enough to do that.
The end of that Twain quote is that “There is no humor in heaven.”
I hope Twain’s wrong.
I really do.
Because even she’s got to laugh about “Redeemeth liveth.”
