For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us. Romans 8:18
There is a picture. It is of my grandfather, John Cassady. He is standing at the edge of a hill, hands in his pockets, looking over the valley below. Around him, the landscape is in autumn twilight, a burning of yellows and reds, the colors of low flame before the extinguishing cold of winter. My grandfather is in profile, his chin raised a little, and it seems to me he is seeing into something I cannot, as I am bound by the confines of the picture.
I think of my grandfather now, at the end of my grandmother, Irene's, life. I think of him in this picture in particular. I think of it, because I know, for all the years that they have been separated, he has been standing on the edge of the expanse of heaven, waiting. Waiting for her to come home. Hands in his pockets. Waiting.
The sadness we all have felt during her suffering, the grief at having to sever the tethers of the earthly love we have so long bound her up in, seems unbearable. Our human hearts do not want to let go. And why would we want to? Grandma, at least for me, had always been. Even at my age, I had never imagined her not being there.
These things about her that had always been: her peels of laughter, her love of us as children, and the same love she showed to our children. Dinners at Christmas, and chicken and dumplings for any occasion. Watching Hee Haw during Saturday Night sleepovers. Roses. Her house full of black and white pictures of her mother, and her sisters, of her children, the girls all in matching Mary Janes and cardigan sweaters, of grandchildren and great grandchildren. Sitting in church with her at Gethsemane. Her loyalty and her selflessness, giving of anything she had.
But, through all of this journey, through all of these painful steps to the end of her beautiful life, I see him. Grandpa. Waiting. And he was never the most patient man. He always was one step ahead of where she was. But, for her, he has had all the time in world. Patiently waiting. And, I cannot tell you how comforting it is to me, that he has finally left that post he has kept for so long, watching over her, to meet her as she finally comes home. Her real home, in heaven.
So, in my mind, the picture changes a little. My grandfather is still on that hill, looking over the valley. But grandma is now there, too, grasping his hand, and looking out, seeing that something I cannot.
God comforts me. He comforts us all. Because the thing that Grandma and Grandpa can see that we don't is this: they are watching over all of us. And will always be patiently waiting.
