When it was noon, darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon. At three o”clock Jesus cried out with a loud voice, “Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?” which means, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” When some of the bystanders heard it, they said, “Listen, he is calling for Elijah.” And someone ran, filled a sponge with sour wine, put it on a stick, and gave it to him to drink, saying, “Wait, let us see whether Elijah will come to take him down.” Then Jesus gave a loud cry and breathed his last. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. Now when the centurion, who stood facing him, saw that in this way he breathed his last, he said, “Truly this man was God’s Son!”
—Mark 15:33-39
It was in those moments of watching my grandmother die that I felt honored to be her grandson. I felt the love of family, both the love of those present in the room and the love of those we kept in contact with by telephone. It was a time of tears and weeping. It was a time of laughter and remembering the good and great moments that we had with the woman who was dying just feet away from us, struggling in her stubbornness, her orneriness, to continue to breathe. We stroked her hair and held her hand. We talked to her. We told her that it was okay to go, that she was loved, that she had lived a good, full life.
And, in the midst of this, I witnessed one of the most tender moments that I have ever had the privilege to experience so far in my life. The nurse, on occasion, would come in and remove a sterile sponge on the end of a stick, dip it in a cup of water, and gently caress my grandmother's lips and the inside of her mouth with the sponge. My grandmother would involuntarily close her mouth against the cool and moist sponge, in a reflexive action. My uncle, the son of this dying woman, started to take over this role, attending to his dying mother a couple times each hour, with tears in his eyes and with gentle hands, a reversal of roles—the son attending to the needs of his mother as she had once did for him when he was an infant.
The image that kept coming to mind as I witnessed this love of a son for his mother was the offering of a sponge of sour wine to Jesus as he dies upon the cross. And, in this moment of immeasurable sadness and grief, I felt a holy peace that filled the room with warmth. Christ was made present to me in these two people, as I watched them enact their relationship with one another. Christ was made present to me in the dying woman, my grandmother, in the very act of her death, in her weakness, in her passivity, in her vulnerability, in her frailty. Christ was made present to me in the caring man, my uncle, in the very act of his care, his compassion, his tenderness, his attendance to the needs of another, his love.
I would not describe my grandmother as a religious woman. I would, however, describe her as a woman of faith. The Methodism of her childhood, and the Lutheranism that she inherited from my grandfather, were deep roots that had been planted in her life. And, the person she said she most admired, other than her parents, was, strangely enough, Martin Luther. She told me a few years ago that she wasn't quite sure what to think of God, especially when she saw so much pain and violence and hatred in the world. She had questions about the world and the way it works. She had questions about why there is evil and suffering in the world. But, I think she would appreciate the beauty of that holy moment in a hospital room, even amidst the pain that it calls forth, even now, if she were able to be here today.
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Eulogy is by Troy's Work Table and was delivered to a standing-room only crowd at the maternal grandmother's memorial service. The picture was taken by the sister-in-law at the same.
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