A jar of pickles and a long-gone rose

Today I took a picture of a jar of pickles, canned in 2011. I should eat them. Actually, I should have eaten them a long time ago.

But each time I think about it, I hesitate since it's the last jar of pickles that I will ever get from my Grandma Kathryn.

In the last year of her life, even though it was filled with hospital visits and pain, she managed to can pickles. That amazes me.

I spent quite a few afternoons at her house during that last year, helping her a little bit with a medical issue she had. I was so happy to do it. Each time I flushed her drainage tube or changed a dressing, I was so grateful to be saying thank you. Thank you, Grandma, for loving me when I was unlovable, or when I wasn't thankful for a gift you gave me. I still remember my selfish tears when I opened a gift that you spent time on, sewing tiny stitches and hours cutting. And I didn't like it. Years later, I remember, and I am sorry for my childishness. 

As I cared for her in a very small way, I remembered weeks spent at her house in the summers, glasses of "onion" tea served in tinted plastic cups, and years of watching her serve others in a quiet way.

I remember how beautiful she was, that age and wrinkles and faded skin were only vehicles to display the great beauty within. A beauty that bloomed greater, the longer I knew her.

When I only wanted to serve her, without receiving anything in return for once, she pushed gifts on me every time I would finish my little afternoon visits. "You're busy," she'd say, "so here is a little something for supper." Or, "how about a little jar of jam."

I always took whatever she offered because, even though I wanted to say Grandma, I am here because I want to serve you for once, I knew every part of her would be unwilling to do that.

In November 13, 2011, she died.

When my roommate's town home sold in 2002, I packed up everything and turned in the keys. Then I realized I had forgotten one last thing, one of my most prized possessions: a faded, brittle red rose.

"This is an odd request," I said, when I called up the realtor. "I forgot something in the house. Any way you could meet me there?"

She looked at me strangely when I came out of the house, tenderly holding the rose. I smiled at her, but offered no explanation.

The rose came from the spray of flowers that covered my father's casket in December, 1999.

Fifteen years ago today, in a mixture of relief and profound sadness, I said goodbye to my dad. Relief because it was so hard to see him suffer. Profound sadness because, well, obviously.

I wondered how we were going to make it. Kids need their fathers. Wives need their husbands. Grandchildren should meet their grandfathers.

The passage of time has been a great gift. I have seen how God has provided for our family. How would things have been different had he lived? That is a question that has no answer and really has no point, since he didn't.

When we celebrated my youngest sibling's birthday last week, I looked at around at our growing family and marveled at how much we enjoy being together. At the inlaws who have come into the family. At the grandchildren who play together. At our stepfather who quietly takes care of our mother and gently nudges us back on track to the way Home when we get out of line.

The rose is long gone, despite my extreme care to keep it on the dashboard every time I moved (yearly for awhile). When it crumbled at last, I was sad, but I carry memories that can't be taken away.

Every time I see that brother walk, I am reminded of my dad. Or seeing that brother tell a story. Or the kid-loving side of that brother. 

We tell stories. We remember. But most of all, when this day rolls around, I think we all thank God that He gave us a loving father and then took care of us with such loving care after Dad died.

I guess I can eat that jar of pickles after all.