Joy Cometh in the Morning

weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning. -psalm 30:5

I was holding my grandfather’s hand when he died. To this day, I can remember exactly what it felt like. His skin was warm and slick. His pulse had been getting weaker throughout the day, his breathing more shallow, and I was trying to feel for a pulse. I could feel one strong heartbeat, and then nothing.

I can remember that day well, and I will always cherish being able to be with him as he died, but that’s not what I think about very often. When I think of my grandfather, I think of him as an avid newspaper reader, playing Parcheesi, and the special moments we shared as I read to him the same book for years as his health was declining.

I don’t remember my paternal grandmother much because she died when I was quite young. We shared a birthday. She had the most generous smile. And she made our Christmas stockings, swimsuits for all my dolls, and woven carpets, amongst many other treasured items in our house.

My maternal grandmother was a force to be reckoned with (whom I’ve already blogged about). She was most notable for her incredible food and equally incredible tidiness, genes that I did not inherit. She died while I was living in Nepal and my village included her in a lovely ceremony for deceased relatives. You can read all about that here. My fellow Fulbrighters really went above and beyond to comfort me, and their abilities to comfort and sustain each other through challenges is something I greatly admire about each of them.

And finally, my paternal grandfather died a few days ago. Dealing with death, no matter how expected, is always going to be difficult. My grandfather was a master woodworker, tolerated many trips to the local zoo as a child, and loved his family.