My Grandma Miles is a hard person to put down into words... This is a poem I wrote after she passed away this past week. It's a bit long, trying to get down some of the memories and lessons she left with me. Dad decided to share it at her funeral as part of his tribute to her. I know that,as she pursued Christ, she gave many others inspiration and an example to learn from.
A lot of people say that they believe
There is more to this world,
More than what the eye can see.
I do.
But sometimes people put that belief on a dusty shelf
Brought out for church and funerals.
I can.
My grandmother was rare.
The belief that there was something more was the window
That filtered and coloured everything.
The only way to view her life,
The only way to understand her reasons,
Is to press against, peer through the glass of that belief.
Even when she put her hand to daily tasks,
To raising five children,
To keeping the linoleum floor clean
In a busy farmhouse,
The chores were done in the shadow of
Marantha --
The promise that there is something more.
Daily meals prepared
Dinner always finished with Scripture and
Kneeling in prayer.
The mundane was lit with
The reminder that there is something more.
The reason she was called to holiness,
The reason she wasn't afraid to say
What she felt was right.
She believed that there was something more;
Someone else she would answer to,
Someone else she was chasing
More than mere people to impress.
The reason that she could befriend teenagers,
Spend time with people whose rough edges
Grate on others' nerves.
Visit hospital rooms and shut-ins
Pile sometimes foul-mouthed children onto
Church buses,
Smiling and handing out cookies.
Only many years unveiling
The teary thanks from adults who said that
Her smile each Sunday
Was the only one freely given
All week.
She believed that there was something more,
Something more to their surface appearance,
Something more important than her comfort,
Someone else who had died for them.
Us grandchildren were kissed and hugged but
There were many other people to reach,
And on youth retreats (yes, on youth retreats!)
I often heard others call her Grandma and
It was so normal, and we were so well-loved --
I never thought to feel a twinge of jealousy.
She shared herself with many,
And I saw her pray the Holy Spirit, wrinkled hands on the
Heads of my high school friends --
Caught up in something more.
In those last few years, her sharp mind
And strong body began
To slip.
My husband and I were headed to
Uganda,
-- Africa! --
Nervous of the unknown,
Stopping in to visit her before leaving
Wondering if it would be the last good-bye?
Wondering if she would know who we were?
And in the hospital bed
Thin legs under white sheets
Gripping my hand her frail body filled up with
The Spirit
Like air, like water
A leaf blowing in a wind.
She prayed protection over us,
She prayed in tongues
She prayed with a knowledge that could not
Be explained
That surprised even Grandpa
We saw a withered body and wandering mind
But
There was something more.
In her final days -- sleeping, shallow
Panting breaths
Even over Skype I could see the room
Around her beginning to fade,
To pale and to shrink,
Another reality coming into focus.
The glitter of a gem-studded throne
A voice like cracking thunder
Angels collapsing, crying,
"Holy, Holy, Holy"
As steadily as the pouring of ocean waves
Over sand.
The Lamb, the King
Alpha and
Omega
Standing strong in
Furious glory.
And now she has arrived, and I know,
---- I can guarantee
She has already flung every crown at His feet
Because she has walked the truth that
He is worth something more.
As she slips from this life and runs and breathes
Deeply of eternity
She tells me one more time
even from that shining shore
–
Reminds me,
-- Let me never for a moment forget --
That there is something more.
