We’re preparing to go home for a funeral in a couple weeks, and I think that when we arrive, it will finally hit me that my grandma has died. I’ve been sad, but I think I’ll feel a whole new set of emotions when I arrive where she should have been and she’s not there.
In the last couple months, which have been, to put it baldly, a season of death for our family, I’ve clung to these words from John Donne:
Death, be not proud, though some have called theeMighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrowDie not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,And soonest our best men with thee do go,Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,And poppy or charms can make us sleep as wellAnd better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?One short sleep past, we wake eternallyAnd death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.-John Donne, “Death, Be Not Proud”
And the sea gave up the dead who were in it, Death and Hades gave up the dead who were in them, and they were judged, each one of them, according to what they had done. Then Death and Hades were thrown into the lake of fire.-Revelation 20:13-14