When an Owl Takes Flight

"I didn't tell you before because there's nothing you could have done.

About my leaves..."

"What about them? Please, please tell us."

"When my leaves go..."

"You go too, don't you? When?"

"Now." - The Odd Life of Timothy Green

There are certain moments as we guide our children through difficult seasons that are worth documenting because they are flashes in which we can literally see their emotional intelligence blossoming before our eyes. What a privilege it is to guide them through what you wish you could protect them from. So much of parenting is like that. "I know how much this will hurt. I want to shield them from this; I want to make the bad go away." And they are always watching. We make decisions and they not only receive those decisions, but observe in what manner we execute them--an agonizing, anxious, overthinking parent's nightmare. 

When we really consider the hardest of times, what would we wish for ourselves? "How would I help me through this season if I could prepare and coach myself?" For me it would be to have someone listen, or sit with me in my grief. To not be alone. To be reminded of hope and the beauty that exists even in pain. To grasp joy even in deep suffering. These are difficult skills to possess, let alone try to figure out how to nurture them in children. How do I hold their hand through feelings that leave one broken and dark? How do I keep them afloat?

My grandmother Peggy was full of life. She was the party, wherever she was - The Ansonia, Rock Hall, Plymouth, a room in my mom's house, her hospital bed. She had a superpower to make anyone and everyone feel welcome, celebrated, heard, seen, and enjoyed. She was a wonderful listener and your victories were her victories. She loved well, and cherished her grandchildren, and then her great-grandchildren. The last 5 years of her life Peg had endearing relationships with both Aria and Leo. They loved her so much. She was vibrant until the absolute very end, and then she quickly released her TIGHT grip on life and was gone. 

I did not know how to guide my children through this and I was afraid of a misstep.

A couple weeks before Peggy's swift exit from this side of eternity, we were searching Disney+ for a family movie. Stephen and I were dealing with a few crises at once that week in a couple of our circles and were distracted as we selected a movie I had seen years ago with my siblings, "The Odd Life of Timothy Green." It's a quirky film starring Jennifer Garner about a couple struggling with infertility who spend a night writing down character traits of a dream child they wished they could raise together. He, Timothy, ends up magically growing from the list they buried in their garden and shows up covered in mud and sporting some strange leaves on his legs. Timothy Green then spends a few weeks as their son teaching them all kinds of lessons in the process about love, friendship, and overcoming adversity, but it becomes apparent, with his falling leaves, that his time with them is fleeting. The ephemeral nature of life on earth resonates as a motif throughout the story.

What we often forget when we fret about the future and how our decisions and actions will impact it/them, is that God is here in it with us. It is these teaching moments that make us who we are and give us the capacity for empathy and compassion. This story that we are only a small part of does not end with us. Death is not the end of life. These children are not meant to be protected from all bad, and doing so is leading with fear and distrust in God's work in all of it, molding them for His purposes and kingdom. All the bad is being made new and it takes dying to rise again. 

It is clear to me that we did not prepare and coach our children through Peggy's death alone. God was working in us, in them, and in Peggy. It is important to note that in the last few weeks of her life my grandmother gave her entire heart over to the Lord. It was a near-inexplicable transformation as the end of her days grew near that she began to talk about Jesus constantly to anyone who entered her room or called her on the phone. Her salvation was a thing for which we had prayed my whole life, but the most mention of God Grandma ever made was a shout out to me in passing as I walked out the door to "say a prayer for me" when I got to church. It was not until the very last weeks as she lay on that hospice bed that she began quoting the words of Jesus, proclaiming his death and resurrection, and acknowledging his mercy and love. We saw it. My children saw it. Everyone who knew Peg and visited her saw this change in her. 

"It's soon," said my mom on the phone as we were driving home from a family function the first weekend in June. "She has taken a turn. Bring the kids if you think they can do it."

"Turn the car around Stephen. We have to go see her." 

"All of us?" Yes. I think so."

Over the course of the forty minute ride Stephen and I prayerfully unfolded the situation for our two oldest.

"We are going to see Grandma Peg in the hospital." 

"Is she ok?"

"Yes, she is ok. But you need to know. We want you to begin preparing your hearts...she is dying."

It hurt me to say these words out loud. I did not know if I was messing it all up. There must be a better combination. Something more poetic that would soften the blow. I couldn't find it. 

"She is?"

Tears. The hard reality setting in. Some shock. She has been sick many times but she always gets better. She always comes home. A lot of silence from Leo and questions from Aria. 

Gentle reminders from Stephen and I that Jesus was calling her home. 

The heavy air and empty spaces I wanted to fill with words of love and comfort I could not find.

We arrived at the parking lot, and began getting everything ready with the two babies in the stroller. I looked over at Leo and he finally spoke. 

"What do you mean dying? What will she be like? Will it be like Uncle Bub? Like in Timothy Green?"

There it was. One of those moments when you get a little glimpse into your child's head and it is so beautiful and full of the spirit. An open door for Stephen and I to build on in conversation and reach their listening hearts in this difficult moment where words were so hard to find. A sign that God was there with all of us for this journey. I was floored. 

This particular scene that Leo was referring to involved Timothy in a hospital room with a close relative of his mother who is dying. They are briefly shown the unfolding imagery of an elderly man (Uncle Bub) who is deeply loved by his family, asking for a child who is dear to him in his final hours. They spend some time laughing and simply enjoying each other's company. Uncle Bub is then seized by a violent cough, Timothy is whisked from the bedside, and the movie tastefully alludes to his passing in the hospital. It is not a long scene but that same heaviness we felt in this moment was a call back for both Aria and Leo. Much like Timothy and Uncle Bub, my children were about to visit with someone close to their hearts whom they knew would not be long with them. Stephen and I had our minds elsewhere that night we watched the movie together and were not fully present, but God had my children absorbed and locked in. He was preparing them for what was to come. 

As I watched my children hold Grandma's hands in the hospital, speak to her loudly and comfortingly, be present in the moment despite the fear and sadness in their hearts, I could do nothing but take it in with admiration and wonder. It felt unearthly then and it does now as I write. I am so thankful for the tender experience of grieving with my children a life we all adored so much. I revel at the unfathomable loving presence of Jesus who has endured death on a cross for our sake, and yet who continues to sustain us through our pain and loss, knowing he has come to redeem it all. Peggy was a gift to our whole family, and we were blessed with so much time with her. Like the owls she had such an affinity for, near-silent when they take flight, she left us so gracefully with remarkable peace. It still feels like she is here. She is forever imprinted on our hearts and minds. What a beautiful way to pass through the veil.