364 Days

It was Tuesday, December 10, 2013.

It's been a year since I got the call I had been dreading for weeks.

Through tears on the other line, my mom said, "Erin, when you come down on Thursday, you need to bring your robe."

I knew exactly what this meant. My Grandma was not going to make it by the I got home on Thursday and I was being asked to officiate my Grandma's funeral - again. It had barely been two months since we had lost Grandma Taylor and in that time I can distinctly remember saying, "I'm so grateful Grandma Woodson is in good health because I'm not ready for this again." Over the past year, I've thought a lot about (and talked some about) what it was like to lose both of my Grandmas back to back, but I've somewhat avoided talking about what it was like to officiate their funerals - or at least avoided really digging into it. I think it's because I don't have the words for what it was like. Having grown up always knowing I would be a minister, I imagined certain milestones in my pastoral life - getting into and graduating from TCU, beginning seminary, counseling camps, serving at a church, becoming a youth minister, and ultimately - my ordination. Many children dream of their wedding way but I dreamt of my ordination day and planned it down to a T. I knew who would be here, who would say what, which hymns would be sung, how it would be holy but so very Penelopeified... I never imagined that day without my Grandmas. When I was asked to officiate their funerals, I felt like it was the least I could do for them and if they weren't going to physically be at my ordination, then by golly I needed to do this for them and for my family. Stepping out of the role of granddaughter, daughter, sister, cousin, and niece and into the role of pastor felt natural to me and honestly, was probably the only way I knew how to handle the grief. I never imagined that I would write their eulogies, organize their services, and lead our loved ones in a celebration of Christ's life and presence that was so clearly lived through Wilma Taylor and Virginia Woodson. 

As I sat in my bedroom - not the bedroom in my apartment, but MY room which had been mine since before I was even born - I was surrounded by reminders of their lives and the love they had for me. A Coke Bear alarm clock. A garnet ring. A fluffy yellow bathrobe. A stuffed dog. An Eeyore fleece jacket. Pictures after pictures after pictures telling the stories of two extraordinary women of faith. They were present on the day I was born and here I was, the youngest grandchild on one side and the middle granddaughter on the other, writing their eulogies. It was the hardest, most humbling, and beautiful thing I have ever had the privilege of doing. I don't know if many people realized how incredibly hard those services were for me and instead of realizing that I was a Granddaughter planning her Grandmother's funeral, I was seen as....well I don't know what I was seen as... Being the pastor in a situation like that is so hard. On one hand I wanted to crawl into a ball and cry my eyes out but on the other hand, my Grandma needed me and I wasn't going to let her down - after all, I couldn't stand to disappoint her any more than I had when she found out I was a registered democrat. I refused to let my Grandma down because she had never let me down. This is what I was called to do - not because I'm a minister, but because I am the granddaughter of Virginia Woodson, a woman whose unwavering faith sustained me in times with clouds so dark that I couldn't even find the horizon. 

I'm grateful to have had a Grandma whose house would be the very first thing I saw when I came home from TCU. I'm grateful to have had a Grandma who I could argue with and be mad at over silly things. I'm grateful to have had a Grandma who would always stock up with my favorite ice-cream(s), who would sit in the pool with me and tell me her childhood stories, who would call me out on my crap, who trusted me to drive her a whole 1.5 miles (3 miles round trip!) to Walgreen's and make up a reason to go (she said she was out of toilet paper) just so I could drive her around on the day I got my driver's permit. I'm grateful to have had a Grandma who prayed for me constantly, came to my choir concerts and gradation at TCU, and who would go to my soccer games even though I really sucked at playing for my first three seasons. I'm grateful to have had a Grandma. 

Not many people know this, but I was the last family member to see my Grandma Woodson at the funeral before we moved to the graveside service. Traditionally, the guests leave, the family leaves, then the clergy leave. In that situation - I was both. For hours and hours I had to be the strong one and I couldn't break down. I wanted to so badly but that wasn't my role in that moment. Once everyone had left and it was just me, Grandma, her other pastor, and the funeral director, I touched her hand, kissed her cheek and longed for my Grandma. I wanted to hear her voice and I wanted her to leave that giant red lipstick print on my face and for her to get mad at me for being a liberal but deep down I knew she was kind of okay with it... And as I soaked up those last few moments of us together, I had to look away. I went back to the little room where my garment bag was hanging and where I had left my flats, and I broke down. 

The hand I held was not my Grandma's. The face I kissed was not my Grandma's. I had said the same thing the night before at the visitation to my cousins. Everyone was saying how beautiful my Grandma looked but I kept telling them that it didn't look like her and it wasn't because she wasn't beautiful, it was because her darn mouth was closed and I wasn't used to that. Grandma was always laughing or talking... If they wanted it to look like Grandma, they should have installed laugh track or something. 

As I composed myself to go back outside and wait for the funeral procession and then lead the graveside service, I thought back to everything I had just felt and said. That wasn't my Grandma. My Grandma isn't gone. My Grandma is very much alive and I know that to be true for many reasons: 

1. Everyone who was there that Saturday afternoon and so many others were a testament to how much my Grandma loved those around her. My Grandma isn't gone.

2. If ever there was a woman of faith, her name would be Virginia Woodson. With the life my Grandma found in Jesus Christ, I KNOW that my Grandma isn't gone.

3. I had 24 years, 10 months, and 26 days (give or take) with my Grandma and she taught me more than I can ever recall. One day I will pass that down to my own grandchildren and maybe one day they too can say, "My Grandma isn't gone."

I never thought the day would come where I wouldn't be able to call my Grandma or ask my mom about how Grandma was doing or hear her walking in the front door and calling out, "Hello!" shortly followed by asking my mom for coffee, but that day and 364 more like it have come and as I cling to every lasting memory I have of my Grandma, I know that my Grandma isn't gone. 

And so as I approach the one year anniversary of losing one of the most beautiful women I have ever known, I am left in tears. I'm left longing for her, being anxious to see her, and struggling to reconcile with the cold hard fact that I won't see her when I go home anymore. But I'm also left with another set of tears - I'm left thankful that I have someone so amazing to cry over. I'm left thankful for the legacy she has built and faith she has passed down. I'm left rejoicing knowing that we will meet again some day and when that day comes, we will laugh, cry, eat ice cream, and worship the Living God hand-in-hand, grandmother and granddaughter, reunited forever and ever. Amen.