Your Grandmother's Gift

Dear Peanut,

We’re coming upon the 10^th yarzheit (anniversary of a death) of my mother, your namesake. For me, it is a time of disbelief—that she is gone ten years; that a decade of my life has vanished; that she and you have never met. Whenever I mention your grandmother, which I try to do casually, as part of our day-to-day interactions, your response is always the same. You look at me with those wide sensitive eyes of yours and say, “But Mommy, that’s sad because your mommy died.”

I understand your reaction. Death is sad, especially the death of a parent as you know so well from the kids’ movies you love so much—Cinderella, Dorothy, The Little Mermaid all had mommies who died. It’s commonplace in children’s stories to have the memory of a deceased parent haunting the hero’s journey toward wholeness. I think you’re still too young to truly comprehend death, but I also suspect that unconsciously you may reason that if it happens in stories, and it happened to me, then you, too, could lose your mommy forever.  To assuage these fears, I fib a little and tell you that your grandmother was very, very old when she died.

Still, the point is that right now you are more aware of your grandmother’s death than of her life. To honor her life as her 10^th yarzheit approaches, I want to share with you some qualities that your grandmother possessed that I hope will be an inspiration for you. I want you to have a document of why her death is sad, even though she was, in her own words, “just an ordinary wife, mother, and grandmother.”

Your grandmother was probably best known for her beauty; it was the first thing people commented on about her. She certainly took pains with her appearance and cared deeply that she was perceived as attractive. Yet, more than being beautiful in how she appeared, she was beautiful in the way she moved through the world. There was a grace and fluidity about her, even during the most humdrum, ordinary moments, and she presided over everything with elegance be it a formal Seder dinner or a Visiting Day picnic at camp. She had a keen aesthetic eye and took pleasure in creating, encountering, and commenting on beautiful things.

She was a peacekeeper and diplomat. “Don’t make waves, Ruth,” she advised time and again, especially when Poppy and I would engage in feisty political debates over dinner. Her greatest desire was for the people who surrounded her to live harmoniously and comfortably. She tried to soften rough edges, and she would always opt for gentle conciliation over harsh conflict, which was not always easy in our family filled with strong personalities. 

She also had an inner dignity and strength than I can’t quite describe and that I don’t think reached its full potential until the last stage of her life when she struggled terribly with lung disease. She spent much of those last years in ICU’s attached to a respirator, and still, even without the power of speech, even in dire pain, she was incredibly considerate and kind and concerned for others. She was so beloved that when it was clear her death was near each member of the nursing staff came into her room to share a tearful, personal goodbye.

As did we, her family, and even then in her final conscious moments, she was a brave, and gracious, and remarkable teacher. She talked about living a full life and about how she loved us all.

Yes, Peanut, her death is sad, but her life—thankfully—was not. And for this reason, I want you to celebrate all she was and all she still has to teach us. And I want you always to embrace this lesson of living life fully and knowing that love is eternal. It is your grandmother’s gift bequeathed to you. It is yours for all time.

I, too, will love you always,

Mommy