He, guitar in hand, quietly walked outside and strummed to his thoughts on the deck as the afternoon sun faded.
I, surrounded by life and peanut butter, tried to comprehend death.
I wonder what life is for her now, on the other side of this fallible one.
We saw her, the boys and I did, less than a week ago. We do not see her often, but she murmured the boys' names. Her great grandchildren. Her legacy.
They shyly handed her construction paper cards, folded askew and stained with vivid Crayola colors.
"That flower is you." My oldest explained, stabbing at a roundish circle on a spindly stem. Drawing is not his strongest subject in school.
"The little flower is me."
She smiled wanly.
Another son fidgeted, uncomfortable on several levels. "I gotta pee." He implored me.
We retreated to the relative haven of the public bathroom. He sat down, feet dangling, and sighed in relief.
"I don't like it when the old ladies touch me." The wheelchairs had swarmed my bright little troop the moment they entered the doors. Many wrinkled faces broke into grins at the sight of the pudgy baby face and fresh young skin. Apparently they were irresistible to several of the residents.
I stared at the old chipped sink, imagining the hordes of germs on it, and pondered.
"Those ladies are old and tired and some of them are sick. You are full of life. Maybe when they see you and touch you, they feel a little more life. You are being good to share that with them."
His young mind struggled with being so close to this foreign concept, the pervading oldness.
"But when they get too old, then what? What happens to their alive part inside?"
"Well..." I could see his little feet swinging, no hurry to leave, needing time to process the heaviness put before him.
"Well, Jesus said He was going to heaven to make a new place for our alive parts. He said He would trade all our bad and dying parts for His good and living parts. So your alive part can get a good new body when it's time."
I've explained all this before, but finally the question niggled in his own mind, and finally desired an answer.
A cover slammed, I heard the flush.
"Is the alive part of me the talking part?" He straightened his pants as I guided him to the sink. He reached on tiptoe for the soap. He needed a boost to get the last few inches. This made-for-adults world where he's trying to fit wasn't comfortable for either of us.
"Yes, the part of you that thinks and talks from inside you is the real part of you."
"I don't want a new body!" He fumbled with the faucet with soap-slick hands. I tried to help without getting the slickness all over me.
"You don't need a new body yet. But the new one will never get booboos or get tired or sick. The new one will never have to get potty trained. I think it will be a good trade."
He jumped to snag a paper towel. Missed. I grew impatient and grabbed a handful. "Here," I shoved them into his drippy hands. "Finish up. The ladies out there miss you."
He sighed, but followed me out.
We visited more with their great grandmother. She seemed tired, worn out, but never complained to us. The children danced around the piano carelessly. But life was exhausting her. The boys made sure she had her cards. We said goodbye.
Today I told them she was gone. I don't know much about death, not yet. It certainly isn't easy to explain to preschoolers.
"Oh." Said the oldest. "So her body's not hurting her anymore."
The other boy said, "She stopped needing to talk?"
"Yes." I answered simply, grabbing another by the shoulder before he bolted out the door. "She doesn't need that body anymore."
"Ok." They seem satisfied. "Can we have a cookie?" They are so busy with living, pain and death are incomprehensible.
By wisdom a house is built, and through understanding it is established; through knowledge its rooms are filled with rare and beautiful treasures.
Proverbs 24:3-4
I look at them around the supper table an hour later, squabbling over who has the longest caterpillar of corn kernels cut from the fresh cob. Her legacy, I think again. The treasures of my house. They wouldn't be here if it hadn't been for her. I am eternally grateful.
God knows how to build a good house.
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