When I was about six years old, I remember having my first conversation about death with Lucas, my brother. We had just watched “Joey,” a silly movie about a kangaroo and when he turned the lights out, I remember looking over at a funeral paper nested in the corner of a picture frame. I knew what funeral papers looked like and I had heard people talk about death, but I hadn’t really thought about it all that much until that moment.

“Why did he die?”

“People just die. It is a part of life.”

“But… they go to Heaven, right?”

“If they live their life for Jesus.”

“And he did, right?”

“I think he did.”

“Do you think when he died, it hurt?”

“Probably at first… but, not forever.”

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          All I knew was that we could have hope in a better place after death. A place with no more pain, tears, or separation. Still, I didn't like the idea of it all. I thought, No… I will need my family forever. They can’t leave me... I assured myself that surely God knew I still needed them, and I prayed to make sure. And for that night, that was enough to calm my small and anxious heart. Time went on and I didn’t really think too much of death until I watched it consume my grandparents.

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         My Papaw was a hardworking man with deep brown eyes, a skinny figure, and usually always wore a button-up shirt, jeans, and velcro shoes. I had seen pictures of him with brown hair when he was younger but the version of him that I knew had hair as white as baby powder.

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        At eight years old, I spent all my free time coloring, painting, and mixing different colors together to make all kinds of pictures, so when I saw him sitting on the couch not busy, I asked him, “Papaw, do you want to come to my room to color with me?”

“Why, yes, I do.”

      He came to my room to color with me and we stayed in there for hours. He would tell me stories of his younger days as I listened and giggled. Then, I got out my Beauty and the Beast tea set for us to have a tea party. He was always up for cookies and a beverage. Later that night, he showed us the “rabbit dance,” a dance he learned when he was in the army and when he was done dancing, he brought out the hymnal and encouraged us to all sing with him. Sometimes if he didn’t know a song, he’d still try to sing it even if the tune was the one that went to the song he had just sung previously. There was never a dull moment with my Papaw.

      Unfortunately, when I was in fifth grade he was diagnosed with dementia. It started with him getting his days and nights mixed up, he would sing hymns all night and then walk around the house for a while. He did this all night. Then, he would sleep for the next three days, occasionally getting up for food. He had a lot of accidents since he didn’t get up much, I remember my mom constantly changing his sheets and walking him to the shower. This process would repeat over and over.

     One day he took off walking outside and we didn’t know where he had gone. Thankfully, the neighbors are all our family, so we know each other. Still, it was scary not knowing where he had gone because we are surrounded by woods and didn’t know which direction he had gone in. Mom called everyone around us and asked them all if they had seen him. I went outside with Dad to look around to see if he was out there anywhere. We did not see him anywhere and so we got into the truck and drove down the gravel road that eventually led to the pavement. We found him walking on the road beside my uncle Bobby’s driveway. We were about to leave for a Christmas Program at a church and he had decided to go ahead and head that way.

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      I was in eighth grade the day he passed. My other brother Phil, the computer teacher, came walking in the doorway of the gym as I sat on the bleachers. I knew it. Papaw wasn’t very well that morning when I left. I had a feeling that morning as I got on the bus that whenever I came back home again it wouldn’t be the same. However, I was thankful that it was my brother giving me the news and not the school receptionist. I couldn’t have held myself together.

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      He approached me and stood in silence for a moment, “Hey, Bet… he just passed.” Tears filled his eyes as the words came out. I had been crying all morning. He took me into his arms as we sobbed. He drove me home and when we got there, all my mom could say was, "Doesn’t he look so peaceful?”

“Yes. He does.”

Inexplicably carefree.

     Before people got there for the funeral, I went to the bathroom with Nicole, my sister-in-law, and let myself grieve in privacy. I tried to not cry in front of my mom, to be strong for her. But, she came in there a few minutes later and found us.

“Don’t hold it in, okay?”

I nodded.

“You don’t have to be strong right now.”

      We all hugged each other in a circle as we wept. There was no doubt in our hearts that he was in Heaven now, rejoicing with his wife, his other family members that passed on, and Jesus. Still, losing him was like losing a limb. However, it was this connection with my mom and other loved ones that kept me going. We talked about him a lot. We sang his favorite songs. We grieved together. We got through it together.

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     My grandma was another very special person, we all called her “Maw.” She was barely five feet tall, had blue eyes, and usually wore a leather coat and carried a leather purse. When getting up in my dad’s truck she usually needed a little boost. 

We would always watch westerns late at night before we would go to bed. She was especially fond of Perry Mason, Bonanza, and The Rifleman. She never went a day without speaking her mind, whether that be about the silly characters on tv or the silly characters in real life.

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      I recall the many evenings when my mom and I would pick up cheeseburgers after my piano lesson and bring them to her house. We would sit at her table and eat as she talked deeply about prophetic dreams, bible verses, and stories of her children and great-grandchildren. She emphasized how important prayer was and that she always tried to pray for everyone, because we’re supposed to love everyone, even if we don’t necessarily like being around them. She always was the last one to finish eating because she talked so much. It was evident that family was very important to her, she made sure that we had dinners together so that we would see each other, talk often, and stay close.

      I was a senior in high school when I watched skin cancer consume her. It started with a small scab that grew and grew. She had surgery to get it removed but then it grew back, even worse than before. Just like Papaw’s dementia, there was nothing we could do now for Maw either. We stood by, doing everything we could to make her as comfortable as possible as the scab bled all over her pillow night after night. Even then, she still sang praises and talked about God’s blessings and how thankful she was for her beautiful family.

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       The night she left us, there was such a feeling of peace that surrounded that small and stuffed hospital room. We all sat in silence, and someone said,

“She made it. She’s there now.”

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      It was around 7:30 and the most beautiful sunset was just going down. I like to think that maybe that was her goodbye to us.

      Both of my grandparents sang praises as they fought their final battles. They knew that death was an inevitable plight. However, they taught me that just because death is a part of life, it does not mean that life is without purpose or that death is something to fear. Instead, there’s even more reason to live life with more passion because of life's impermanence. We only have a limited amount of time to talk to our mom, make art, have tea parties, sing songs, and watch movies. Life is meant to be lived. To be enjoyed. My Papaw showed me that as he colored with me in my bedroom, laughing and saying, “cheers” every time we filled our small teacups up again. Maw showed me that as she made plans for dinners and parties, smiled and analyzed westerns, and said her daily prayers. 

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      Even if things didn’t go the way I had hoped, I still loved. I still lived. I still spent time with them and made memories. I still learned what the rabbit dance is and how to pray. I still had them and I will never forget them. Thank you God for letting me have them. 

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      And now I know, it will indeed hurt at first… but, not forever.