Five years ago, to the day, my darling maternal grandmother died in a nursing home in Southern California. Because she was strong and sometimes ornery and came from a family of 15 children who enjoyed longevity, she shuffled into her 90s like most of her siblings. She did not leave us quickly or dramatically. Her body lived on and on — seemingly out of sync with her mind that aged at a faster rate.

Some thought this was a blessing. At moments it seemed a gift to me as well when she did not realize she no longer lived independently. But some days it seemed cruel and punishing, as she eventually became inconsolable, angry and confused. She was the last member of her family to live on earth and she missed everyone terribly. Especially Elsie and Loren and Charlie. She looked for them under the cushions in the sitting room and they filled her fitful sleep. They became her companions of comfort when those of us who came long after became strangers.

The last time I saw her it was a sunny, breezy Southern California kind of day. The bougainvillaea was in full bloom and cascaded over the gated courtyard where my Grandmother often sat. I parked in a spot that allowed easy access to the courtyard and as I put away my keys and stuffed my sunglasses in their case, I spotted her sitting in a sun-drenched corner. I recall being struck by the halo of white hair spotlighted by the sun and in a move that surprised even me I flung open the door and called out, “Grandmother! Grandmother!” just as I did a thousand times when I was young and could see her walking toward my childhood home from my large bedroom window.

I had been told that she would most likely look upon me as a stranger, as her dementia had strengthened since my last visit. Yet on that day her mental connections were in place. God knew how important this moment would be for me, today, and His gift was recognition. I watched as her head quickly turn toward my voice and as she lifted her tiny frame out of the metal chair I heard her call out weakly, “Joan, is that you?”

She recognized my voice and looked deeply into my eyes when my tears flowed. I had not wanted to cry and yet I knew that she would understand, for you do not live 93 years without having produced a reservoir of your own tears. We were two women there in that small yard, separated by generations of living and yet facing the same reality: death is a thief.

This same thief is now peeking around the corner of a nursing home in Texas as my 96-year-old paternal grandmother waits to join her family, all gone before her. Like five years ago, the phone rings and my stomach churns in painful recognition that the impending news of her death will once again remind me how final is the work of the thief.

Yet Sarah Victoria Seaba Bay wears a symbolic robe of purity and perfection. It is a robe that she donned as a child when a Sunday School teacher there in the Bible Belt of our nation told her that embracing Jesus Christ as her Savior and Lord would cover all of her imperfections the day she would stand before a just and loving God to recount her life.

In reality the thief will steal her away from us here with more life yet to live. But he will barely get a hand on her, for I believe that she will move into the presence of a loving God and experience the gift that has no doubt given her the kind of hope and promise she would never experience here on earth.

This is the way it if for Christians. Not an easier life, mind you, but a promise that life will continue long past what we know here. And this vision of what awaits her is what consoles me today as I long to hold her in my arms and say a final earthly good-bye, knowing full well I will not make it to Texas in time.

Yet in my grief there is a blessing — God’s touch to my breaking heart. I can honor this short country lady, who never drove a car or gazed upon the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel but who did the most noble of human activities: she planted the seeds of faith in my heart at her kitchen table. She showed me her worn Bible and told me it held the secrets to living a life God would honor. She played a role in my own eternity and gave me the chance to hug her, someday, in heaven.

Freelance writer Joan Bay Klope’s e-mail address is

jbklope@hotmail.com