After The Work

There she sat in her easy chair, 100 years past her birth looking at her crochet unfinished. 100 years to watch the world change, to grow up, live life, watch others fade away, and now finally feels like she has had enough crocheting. She once had quilts, embroidery, stockings, oven mitts, pot holders stacked all around her. Even in her retirement apartment she was surrounded by her sewing and other crafts. Never one to sit around and do nothing, she used to ride horses, run after her boys, and keep home under the watchful eye of Mount Shasta. In her years eventually the house became too much, she lost her only love of her life, and acquiesced to the retirement home so that “she wouldn’t be a burden”.

In testament to her life and love, her family faithfully visited from far and wide as often as they could. They called her routinely on the phone, even though she could barely hear them anymore they still loved to hear her voice and her down to earth wisdom. She had a pull out couch in her room so family could sleep there so they wouldn’t have to get a hotel room. Not everyone had one of those at the home. She always felt the love she had for family return to her ten fold. They cherished every oven mitt she crafted ever so slowly now that her hands would hurt when she crocheted. She loved the chocolates they brought her and her milkshakes she would add club soda to and make a malted. Most people don’t even know what a malted is anymore. She had always had a sweet tooth even on the farm when money was tight she made cookies for her “sweetie” and her boys.

She always looked upon others with kindness, quick to help, and would show up on your doorstep with dinner if you just had a baby or were laid up in the hospital. She looked at overly religious people with a skeptical eye, wondering why they had to tell everyone about their faith in the Lord when such a thing was best spoken of in private and shown publicly by your deeds. Facing eternity at age 100, she said her simple prayers and held her doubts and fears honestly as she discussed where she felt she fell short. Years of life add humility like seasoning in a fine stew, causing old feuds to seem silly now. She had reached out in turn to a few people she felt she needed to, two buried the hatchet, one with a heart like stone. She did her best and let the rest roll off of her shoulders, shoulders that carried so many hearts for so long began to lay them down.

One cannot live to 100 and not have some good humor about life. Her once youthful body now was turning on her, so she chuckled each time she looked at her oxygen concentrator, rolled her eyes with a smile at her pills, laughed about how she needed a walker, or didn’t make it to the toilet. It is said “getting older is not for wimps”, and she embodied that spirit wonderfully. Strength such as this was born out of want, having lived through a depression, a world war, and the changes our country had seen since. You either learn to laugh and roll with the punches or you get bitter. Not everyone learns how to do that, make the best of a moment even when it doesn’t measure up to your hopes. It is a choice to look at the world change and try and imagine what it is like for others rather than shout for times long past. She never had an ill word for the young staff who helped her, accepting that each generation had their own strengths and weaknesses. It is no wonder the staff used to dote on her a little more, or that they kept vigil over her as she no longer got out of bed.

Yes, she looked at her crochet and said “that’s enough”. She was tired, so tired. Always falling asleep in the middle of a stitch or a conversation these days. She made it to her “triple digits” but she admitted it was really because her family spoke excitedly about it. All her friends were gone, her “sweetie” had passed away, her children’s children had children. Everyone loved talking with her and wished she could always be there, but they began to see how tired and short of breath she was. No one wished her to suffer anymore. She was reassured that “passing away is just the next chapter of the journey” and rested on her quiet faith. She was not afraid, she had crocheted enough.

She passed in her sleep into Infinity with family and staff keeping vigil at her side. People came and squeezed her hand, prayed, sang and played music. She passed from an earthly chorus in her room straight into a Heavenly chorus to the next. A Homecoming sent from a host of well wishers. We all hope for Eternity, for reunion, for peace and understanding. As we near that day, our vision of this world fades and the next is brought into focus. Perhaps our hearts, perhaps our souls perceive what we cannot see in this life. People begin to see their family long passed, visitors in the room, they speak to those we cannot see. Perhaps it is all just a dying brain firing one last time, but the experience is so well documented that there seems to be more than just our biology at work. Our bodies can only crochet so long, what we do has meaning in this life and prepares us for the next.

So don’t weep for the life well lived, though our tears do come to say goodbye. Aspire to live as she did. Take hold of each and every moment, looking past yourself, your needs, and your fears, and fill the bowl of your neighbor before yours is full. Rejoice in your youth, be grateful for what you have, what you did, and who you know today because it all ends one day. No sense crying over what has been spilled, simply fill your glass and try again. Whether you crochet, whittle, farm, sing, dance, or write, know that one day the task will be done and pray that you pass in your sleep with a host surrounding your bed just as she.