by the Night Writer

My grandmother, Elizabeth “Lizey” Burleson Stewart Ray, passed away Wednesday morning in her sleep at 101 years of age, just a couple of months shy of making it to 102. I visited her when I was down in Missouri a few weeks ago and was able to hold hands with her for a few minutes but she wasn’t aware of too much that was going on.

She’d been that way for quite some time but had been livelier of late and more interactive, probably due to a change in her medication. This was a good thing but also raised a tough question for the family about what to say if she asked where my father — who died more than a year ago — was. It was decided we’d just say “Oh, he’s home, Lizey” and let it go at that. She’d been devastated when her oldest son died several years ago and no one thought it would do any good to tell her about her youngest boy.

We seldom lived near each other for most of my childhood. We’d see her a couple of times a year, usually, and a couple of summers we stayed with her at her lake place where my great-uncle Harvey would take us fishing out in his boat and tell us stories about the mischief my father and his brothers used to get into — almost all of which would end with Grandma’s stern intervention. When I got older we talked more, especially after I got married and had kids of my own. Her faith was very important to her, and when we’d visit we could talk about her life and what it was like raising those four boys and two girls. I remember one time she told about the oldest boy getting very ill and having to go to the hospital; about how worried she was and how much she prayed; and how, when she walked out into the corridor outside his room she saw an angel and knew everything was going to be fine.

This morning I thought about that and of the time the family put on a big bash for her 85th birthday. There was a quite a crowd, even with accounting for her children, the 17 grandchildren and I don’t know how many great-grandchildren. She had a lot to be proud of, and she was pretty pleased. I still remember her telling me, though, “So many of my friends have already gone home to be with the Lord. And they’re probably wondering what happened to me!”

I’m sure they’ve been having a grand time getting caught up.

If we really think that home is elsewhere and that this life is a “wandering to find home,” why should we not look forward to the arrival?
— C.S. Lewis

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