Daybreak

Today began with bacon and coffee.

I hardly ever cook bacon, but man, my Grandma Billie did. Coffee and bacon. The bold, darkness-to-dawn aroma so hefty it could wake you fully from a deep night's sleep. Steamy streams of Folgers and hickory smoke swirled through the heater vents and under the bedroom doors of her sturdy brick home. Thick wafts of preparation, provision, and peace. Strong and sweet.

As a girl, I remember staying at Grandma's house for Thanksgiving holidays. I found the sleeping part to be often fretful and lonesome … always tired from station wagon travels, overstimulated by the togetherness, and unable to rest in a place that was not my home. I remember straining to catch what the adults were discussing in the living room down the hall. Still, all I could hear was intermittent knocking and aggressive crackles as though from a fireplace (but it ended up being the shuffle & cut of cards in a late-night, aunt and uncle game of spades).

Mornings at Grandma's were quiet and calm, though. I would blink awake, then close my eyes again to listen. A sort of sizzling syncopated by faint flips and the gentle scraping of a cast iron skillet meant Grandma was up and I wanted to be up too.

My whole life, she has greeted me and treated me with confident cheer. Her high-pitched Arkansas twang calling my name and saying "I love you!", a resting smile transitioning to an open-jaw grin, and the way her curiosities started with, "Well, now, Cari…" I could count on her tight, squeezy hugs where she'd drum on my back with jangly bracelets and manicured hands while my face mashed into her hairline, pressing against the teased shellac of curls.

She had a standing appointment at the beauty shop on Fridays, and then she'd sleep with toilet tissue wrapped around her bouffant for the rest of the week. She insisted that I bathe in her bathroom and gave me full permission to use her Avon bubble bath (the kind with the bumpy pink bottle and a tall white lid). She also reminded me to "dust off" afterward using an enormous pink powder puff as big as a fur frisbee. It had a handle in the center made from loops of pink satin ribbon so you could gingerly pull the puff out from the round flowery box in a poof of shimmery floof. Bathtime adventures never smelled so strong or so sweet.

I remember Grandma scolding us collectively as cousins scurrying through the house. Her screen door could only slam a few times before she would squawk, "In or out! You kids decide where you wanna be and STAY in or out!"

And the next child who passed by her chair at the table would get snagged up into a giggly hug. Strong and sweet.

Tonight, my Grandma lies in a rehab bed alone. In her nineties, her mind (that until recently had been sharp with opinions and stories and thoughtful generosity) is slipping away while her frail body persistently remains. Just a few years ago, she was the designated driver for her friends in assisted living … doctor appointments, bingo night, Braum's, or church; she was the one at the wheel.

In the spring of this year, she and I danced in the dining room to more than one chorus of "Sweet Home, Alabama". But a series of mini-strokes and a string of subsequent falls have changed everything.

It is so hard and sad.

If this were simply a[nother] sizeable challenge, Grandma could manage and overcome … widowed three times, weathering all that death leaves in the wake, and yet characterized by bright gladness, Grandma can absolutely slay the hard and sad.

But this is not merely a challenge; it is thievery. The taking away of what we know and love, the robbing of communion and coherence … awareness of where you are and who everyone is, and why we're together in the first place. Standing by while sanity, stability, strength, and sweetness are stolen in slow motion … is hard and sad.

I don't know if it is more selfishness or compassion, but a secret part of me wishes she could stop teetering at this edge of earthly stuff. "In or out. Decide where you want to be ..."

In this dreary dusk of such a wonderfully beautiful life, I imagine it must feel lonesome and fretful to her … tired from her journey, unable to truly rest because this is not her home. I pray for peace and provision believing there is a place prepared for her.

In this dim waiting, I believe God's presence envelops her now and forever …

Strong and sweet.

And I smile when I wonder if heaven smells like coffee and bacon.