I went back to bed after everyone left this morning and had dreams. I dreamed we were cleaning out my grandmother’s house before she died of everything that belonged to us. In my dream, we had been staying with her to take care of her and we were about to leave because she was about to die.
No such thing actually happened in my life–my grandmother did die after a short illness when I was in college, but we did not live there to take care of her. All her children took turns “sitting up” with her, taking care of her daily needs as she lay in the bed, unable to care for herself.
I dream a lot about being at her house. She was the closest thing to an angel I have ever known. She never raised her voice to any of us children that I ever heard. And all of us cousins could be a wild bunch. I do remember spending the night with her occasionally–she would let me read back issues of Southern Living or Our Daily Bread, a devotional magazine she read faithfully every day along with her Bible. We would pop popcorn the old-fashioned way, holding a long-handled popper over the gas heater to get it to pop. We would sit and watch TV, which she kept around mostly for us kids to watch. I don’t think I ever saw it on in her house when we would arrive to visit. It was a very simple house, with bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling instead of light fixtures, but it was a calm house. There were beds in every room except the kitchen and bathroom, a legacy of fitting seven children into a six-room house.
Whenever I have these dreams I miss my grandmother intensely. I wish I still had someone in my life with her calm temperament and her assurance that everything was going to be all right because it was in God’s hands, not ours. I look forward to seeing her again some day.