Wednesday, March 24, 2010

life continues







My blog has slumbered silently while everything else in my life swirls around me sucking my breath and leaving me empty and tired. So much has happened; so much continues to happen. I find myself composing blog entries in my head; what I would write if I could even sit and type for a few moments. I find it to be a coping mechanism. It takes the place of talking to myself in conversation form and even replaces the would be conversation with this friend or that friend if they were here for a chat or talking on the phone while folding the laundry, etc. As time passes and more and more of my life stacks up unwritten, I find it even harder to write. How do I pick from all of things bouncing around my head screaming to be heard; begging to be freed from the constant over-thinking, over-analyzing of my brain?



Life continues even when I want to hit the pause button and savor a particularly sweet moment. I can't hit the fast forward button and speed through the weighty trials and heartaches. The rewind button doesn't work either when I want to "take it back" or plead for "do overs". The play button has been pushed and life is in progress.



Yesterday, March 23, 2010 marks the passing of Thelma Abbott, ninety-five years old, nearly a century. I only enjoyed twelve of those years with this wonderful woman and yet it feels like so much more. My first introduction to Grandma was when Jon and I were dating. Driving in the Abbott driveway, I was sure to see her most days up in front of her house sweeping up the pine needles and leaves, pruning her rose bushes, rinsing out her dishes in the garden hose, picking up trash that thoughtless passersby discarded, left to blow in her yard. If not in the front of the house, then she would probably be found around back, raking the gravel where "the renters" had hurriedly pulled in or out leaving tire tread marks or watering her garden, or planting something new. Grandma was a worker. She worked and worked and worked. I have wonderful memories of Sunday Dinners at her house followed by a game of Aggravation or Rumikub. After Jon and I were married we had the opportunity of renting one of her basement apartments. We lived there for three plus years. During that time we visited daily. I loved listening to her stories and hearing about her life. She was a wonderful cook; we enjoyed exchanging recipes and sampling each others food. My maternal grandmother had died when I was 14. I had lived next door to her, and had been very close to her. I missed her terribly. Grandma Abbott didn't replace her, but she filled a void that I needed filled.

Her death was not unexpected. I knew it was coming. I thought I was prepared to say goodbye. I thought I would feel relief for her being able to shed her ninety-five year old body and let her spirit greet all of her loved ones who have gone on before. Instead, selfishly, I feel loss and sadness that I will no longer be able to visit with her, learn from her, or soak up her wisdom.

Death like birth is a bitter-sweet process, full of patience, waiting, pain, sorrow, joy, relief, and love. For one we gather and celebrate a new life just beginning; for the other we gather and celebrate the life that was lived. Grandma Abbott, thank you for the privilege I had to know you and love you and be loved by you.
note: the above pictures were taken on September 28, 2008

9 comments:

Kathy D said...

I love Thelma. I was lucky enough to know and love her for the last 16 years. One of the most beautiful and quiet acts of service I have ever witnessed was a weekly occurrence in Sacrament Meeting. Thelma would whisper a line of words of the hymn we were singing, into Cindy's ear. Cindy would sing, all the while with her hymn book upside-down. I know she is in a good place, but I miss her.
-Kathy Dobbs

Lynette said...

A beautiful tribute to one of the most amazing women i have ever met. i only wish we had stopped in a few more times over the years. i loved visiting with her and being treated like i was family because you were family.

* said...

We love you, Thelma. You will always be Granny Abbott on the hill for us Hall folk. And your gardening and strong spirit will be remembered. And your good heart.

Norris Fam said...

Beautifully written...

Brittany said...

What a sweet post Rachelle. It made me cry. She sounds like a wonderful lady.
BTW I love reading your blog. You are a great writer! :)

Michelle said...

You are a great writer, and I wish that I could express what you did in that first paragraph as well as you. But since right now I can't, I'll just say "ditto." (How's that for the cheap way out?)
As for Grandma Abbott, your words brought me to tears too. The passing of a beloved grandparent is always so bitter-sweet. It is so wonderful for them to move on, so sad for us to not have them around. I feel like whenever someone of this calibur dies, that volumes of would-be books - all containing the life experience, lessons, and wisdom of (in this case) almost a century die too! It is hard to even comprehend.
I am sorry for your family's loss. It is only normal to feel sad, even if for selfish reasons!

* said...

Good seeing you today, too. We need to do another bloggers lunch out/park day or something. (Any excuse to get together, right? I need some blog/friend therapy about now...)

Deanne Hill said...

Rachelle,
That was such a beautiful tribute to Thelma. All of your family continues to be in our prayers! Lots of love!
Deanne

Corrina Terry said...

Thanks Rachelle. Life won't be quite the same without Thelma.