No good-byes

By Steve Walton

Note: I wrote this prior to receiving the unfortunate news of the untimely passing of Rachel Sutherland. She was a brilliant young lady, who I was blessed to know. My deepest condolences go out to all of Rachel’s family and friends who will greatly miss her.

“Nana, it’s Steve.”

I had just seen her a few days prior to my phone call. My Aunt and Uncle had driven her to Lexington to have dinner (supper, as we call it) with me.

Before that it had been awhile since we had seen each other. Too long.  I had been rather busy, well, not really very busy; just preoccupied. There was always next week. Well, ok, the week after that maybe.

“Twice in one week, this is unheard of.” She laughed.

“How do you make lemonade?”

She laughed harder.

“I’m having company over in [pause] 10 minutes and I need to make lemonade.”

“Do you have lemons?” A very silly question, yet very valid.

“A bag.”

“Oh Kid, lemons are expensive. I was at the store the other day…”

The conversation quickly headed into the price of lemons (“small ones really”) and that I shouldn’t have bought so many. She explained that I only needed three to make a pitcher.

“What pitcher?”

We then discussed the pitcher I should use, and talked about if I should make iced tea. The menu was reviewed and commented upon.

“It’s been ten minutes. Your company will be there any second.”

“So, how do I make lemonade?”

She explained the process of making lemonade. It was much simpler than I expected. The only mishap occurred when my shirt sleeve fell in the lemonade, while I stirred it with my hand as she suggested. (“You just gotta reach in there and stir it up real good.”)

Once the pitcher was safe in the refrigerator, and she had assured me that the dinner would be “delicious,” she ended the call in her normal way, “love ya, Kid.” Click. She never said “good-bye.”

That was our last conversation; she died a few days later.

When my niece was three years old her great-grandfather died. She stayed at our house the days leading up to the funeral.

While watching a movie one evening she sleepily looked over at me and said, “My Grampy is dead, you know?”

What do you say in those situations?

“Everybody cry.” She went on to say, listing everyone she had seen cry over the last few days. “But I no cry.”

I explained that it was ok not to cry; some people cry, some do not. I thought she felt guilty, so I tried to relieve her of the burden I felt she had.

“It’s not sad.” She told me.

Maybe they were not close, I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure what to say to the little kid sitting next to me.

I wanted to explain that death was a new beginning; it was possible for it to be both sad and joyous. But could a three-year-old really understand that through the darkness of death one entered into a dawn of new life?

“It’s so pretty.” She said matter-of-factly. I thought she was talking about the movie. When I asked what she meant she said, “God’s house, where Grampy went to live. It’s so big and there is a really big yard where people play soccer. It’s so pretty. Everyone is happy.”

She had gotten up on her knees so she could look me in the eyes. Quietly she said to me, “See, it’s not sad.”

When I asked how she knew all of this she said, “Oh, I see it everyday on the way to Kroger.”

She then went to sleep.

Several years after Olivia’s description of God’s house, that memory was of great comfort when my Nana passed.

I’m not sure if Olivia is right, but if there is soccer in heaven I know Nana is playing (or at least making fried chicken and tapioca pudding for those who are).

Because of Christ’s sacrifice, we have been redeemed from the house of bondage and transcended into peace.

Christ’s struggle and precious death guarantee that our own struggles and death are no longer in vain; that life is never final, and there are no “good-byes.”

“No eye has seen, no ear has heard, no mind has conceived, what has been prepared for those who love God.” —1 Corinthians 2:9