Death steals hearts. It steals the hearts of the ones we love right out of their beds at night. It not only takes them, it takes you.
Death can take our hearts and make them bitter. It can nab our hearts and make them lonely. Or death can steal our hearts and make them sad. When one person dies, we might feel a bit of ourselves go as well.
Even when we’re expecting it, we fall apart. Death takes us someplace nothing else can. It makes us think about our own lives, how we could have loved more, how we could have loved differently. It takes us deep into the past, thinking of every little moment we can remember with that person who is now gone. Hanging on is dear, but letting go is dearest of all.
I’m standing there, under the gorgeous blue sky, rays of sunshine beaming down on me. I’m standing there, clothed in black, surrounded by family, all of dressed like raven birds. I’m standing there, looking out on the hilltop, past the headstones, and what I see is all the fields and farmhouses and animals. Because here we are, here she is, back where she most wanted to be. Less than a mile from her childhood home. Less than a mile from the church she grew up in and got married in. Surrounded by our heritage, encased in the setting that supported hard work and saving. Here she is, lying next to her husband again, under the glistening sun. She would have wanted to be here the most. She had been waiting.
Let me tell you about my grandma.
She grew up near Hillsboro, in Bethany. She went to the Presbyterian Church near her childhood home for years and years, even got married there. She married my grandpa, Roy, and they had a dairy farm together. The story that I heard this morning goes like this: Grandpa had some young men out working with him in the hay field. It was lunch time and one of the men opened up his lunch to reveal a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. My Grandpa Roy said “What the hell is that?” And the man said, “It’s lunch.” Roy told him it sure wasn’t, and that he’d better come back to the house for a real meal. They got there and my grandma had a proper lunch going. Cheese and sausage, I’m sure. And probably potatoes and applesauce, along with some bread. Undoubtedly. The man said there was more food there than he’d seen at his Thanksgiving dinner. Well, from then on he left his lunch at home, because he learned that Betty knew how to feed the farm boys. I remember walking in that white farm house door at ten o’clock or two o’clock, she always asked you if you wanted something to eat. And when you said no she put food in front of you anyway.
Later, when my grandparents moved away from Bethany, my grandma still was a faithful Presbyterian. She went to the same church for over 50 years. As I was sitting in that same church for the funeral, I learned two things. First thing was, Grandma helped run that church. She taught Sunday School in her early years and helped build part of that church. My Grandpa Roy was building the wing and Grandma was on the phone calling everyone saying “You’d better come down and help my husband build the church.” Years later, after my grandpa died, Grandma worked in the church office. And even later, after she had to move off the farm and into a retirement center, she was still there every Thursday at 9:30am to fold bulletins. The pastor said he knew he couldn’t be late those days, because you could count on Betty to be there at 9:30 sharp, ready to fold those bulletins. She came, even when she had to use her cane to hobble across the parking lot. She was too stubborn to use a wheelchair, of course.
She was too stubborn and fed you right, that was my grandma. She was faithful and worked hard.
If you should learn anything from reading about her, then learn this: work hard and take care of people.
Yes, Death steals hearts. But Love can take it right back.
Betty Jean Grossen
Sept. 1, 1928 to Sept. 16, 2010
