Sketchism

The tears come too quickly these days. I’ve never known this kind of pain. My heart is heavy, my eyes weathered, my head hung low. Seeing her in that bed with those plugs, those monitors with their blips that calculate every heartbeat is tougher than I could’ve imagined. She is surviving, I convince myself. I hear about other stroke victims who make it back on their feet and live beautiful lives. The only thing I can think of is the painting I never finished and the cookie jar I never replaced. I remember holding her hand as an infant and parading through the aisles of the grocery store as she scoured for our favorite treats and our next big meal, all five of us. I think of all the times she walked through our front door and I barely greeted her. I think about all my shortcomings as a grandson.

And then I hold her hand and tell her that I’m praying for her. Her eyes open wider than they have all evening. The left side of her face remains in that forced stoicism which only a stroke can cause. Her left arm and leg remain still as they have all weekend. The tubes in her nose, intrusive as they seem, provide her with the oxygen she needs to talk to me. I know she is smiling. She talks to me about God, about his sovereignty, his love.

In heaven my grandmother’s prayers are heard. The names of countless cousins, uncles, and siblings are sung among the heavenly hosts. She says my name in her psalms. A kind nurse comes into the room and checks her condition. It is time for her pills. The more I think about the future, the more the tears stream down. I turn away and wipe them to hide the evidence that I am weak. Grandsons need to be strong at this hour. They need to smile, they need to comfort. I’m choking on the emotions that form in the pit of my throat. The sour taste of regret, the bitterness of fear, the faint sweetness of hope. I’m not used to this.

I hold my mother’s hand as the pastor reads from his Bible. He addresses her as a close friend. They have traveled to Israel together. They have shared prayers in the past. They have shared stories and jokes. He seems closer to my grandmother than I ever was. Perhaps it is because they are closer to God than I am. I’m happy that she knows that kind of joy. I know that she is glad I’m there. I just wish I could see it in her smile the way I could have a week ago and when she was in my living room watching television with my mother. The tears keep leaking. I blink. I wipe. I force a smile that causes me to squint and produce even more tears. I hold back the sobs. My mother leans on me and we smile to my grandmother as she listens in her bed. She is surrounded by her sons and grandchildren. She is surrounded by angels. She recites the passages as the pastor reads them to her. He is impressed with her knowledge of scripture. The verses have been her company in that lonely apartment for years. When he finishes reading to her, she recites her own prayer to her present company. She is not ready to go, she says. The entire room holds back their own emotions.

A few hours later when its just the two of us in the room, her eyes open again to look at me. I smile. We have a long conversation. I thank her for always praying for me. I thank her for loving me. I tell her I love her too.

Before my mother and I leave, I say a prayer in Spanish. I fumble through words I am translating in my mind moments before I lift them up to God. The room is silent. They are praying, too. Amen, I say. My grandmother is thankful. I will see her tomorrow. I will pray with her again. I will work on that cookie jar I never replaced. I will work on that painting I never finished. I will be the grandson I should have been a long time ago.

I hold my mom in the parking lot. I bury my face in her shoulder the way I did when I was a kid, the way I did when the Ribeiros left, the way I did when my brother left. She tells me things will be alright. She strokes my hair and pulls me deep into her motherly grasp. I’m scared of things to come. I’m scared of how little control I have. Sometimes things come back to us. Our health, our friends, our family. Sometimes we just need to wait it out. We need to remember where our journeys have taken us. We need to pray.

Not my will, but Thine.