Graced

“Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound…” The melody became an unlikely descant in my mind, even as my voice issued an entirely different song, “Rain down, rain down, rain down your love on your people…” We made a melancholy quartet, there at Nana’s bedside. As we finished our serenade, she lifted her head and struggled with what would be her last words to my brothers and me. “Sing it again”.

Nana died the way she did everything; with strength, dignity, and surrounded by family and friends.

While she was still lucid, we brought my 3-year-old to see her. They always had a special bond, as if there was a secret the two of them shared which eluded the rest of us completely. He wanted to show her his “Now I Lay Me” prayer, and brought the last true smile to her face by bellowing each line and clapping, cheerleader-style, between each phrase:

“Now I lay me (clap) down to SLEEP (clap) Pray dalord my (clap) Solda KEEP (clap) Angels watch me (clap) Through the night (clap) Wake me inda (clap) MORNING LIGHT (clap clap)”

We thought she’d already grown too weak to move, but as he pray-cheered, she surprised us all by momentarily sitting up to see him. She fell back, exhausted, and he announced to us, “Nana wants ice cream”. We asked her if that was true, and she nodded that it was.

Eventually she became unable to lift her head, or even move her eyes. Even then, when my toddler insisted on being lifted up to give her a kiss, she somehow found the strength to catch him as he nearly tumbled from her bed.

That was our Nana. Always taking care of us, looking out for us, no matter the cost to her. The world was a safer place, just because she was part of it.

The entire family was gathered in the small bedroom of her assisted living apartment. She had imparted her love of music to all of us. Over 50 years of her life were spent supporting the varied artistic and musical endeavors of her children and grandchildren. Now the only way we knew to make this passage easier for her was to fill her last hours with music.

We broke into small groups to sing special songs from the past. My mother and her sisters managed to remember songs from 40 years earlier when they were “The Harms Sisters”, my brothers and I renewed songs from a recent music ministry, and our cousins gave various instrumental recitals. Then the whole family joined in one large chorus to sing her favorite hymns.

Every time we finished a song, there was a pause as we collectively determined what to sing next. I had the overwhelming desire to request “Amazing Grace”, but every time I opened my mouth to suggest it, I found myself coming up with something else instead, or just simply saying nothing. It was as if some unseen force physically prevented me from uttering those words.

The song itself was of no particular significance for either of us. I don't even remember the exact circumstance of learning it, but I think I heard Nana sing it in church. Naturally, being associated with her made it special, but it was never one of those “think of me when you sing this” songs between the two of us.

Yet here I was, at her deathbed, compelled to demand that the family sing “Amazing Grace”, but physically incapable of voicing my demand. Instead, a cry heard only in my head shouted for it during our whispered discussions of which hymn to sing next, and the melody itself rang mercilessly through my mind as I struggled to stay in key with the song actually being sung.

When we reached the point of repeating hymns and singing Christmas carols, I thought surely someone else would think to sing “Amazing Grace”. It’s one of the best-loved, best-known hymns in Christianity, isn’t it? But nobody mentioned it, and I remained unable to do so. Why did this song that refused to be sung continue to torment me during this, the darkest time of my life?

Nana was the one person who never doubted me, who truly loved me unconditionally and was always there with a supportive hug and a shoulder that could bear the tears of the world. Her infinite confidence in the basic goodness of humankind overruled whatever contradictory evidence was shoveled my way. Now she had to leave me. I wanted, needed to be there for her. There was no way to survive this without keeping my full attention on the excruciating process of her passing.

I wanted to escort her on her way with beautiful sensations: music, soft light, warm smells, infinite love. Conversely, I wanted the rest of creation, myself included, to be torn, thrown into the dark vortex sure to be created by her loss. Storms roiled outside, as if comprehending my need for the skies to accent the horror of these hours; but respectful to the situation, the thunder, lighting and tornadoes waited until she was gone to strike with their full fury.

The haunting melody allowed me no such reverence, however. “I once was lost, but now am found...” it continued relentlessly as I endured the nightmare I’d long dreaded. Her hand grew cold in mine, and as I watched peace finally settle over her face, the pain no longer etched in her features, everyone grew quiet but for muted sobs. Cutting into the silence came the voice of my child, speaking softly in his sleep, “Angels watch me…through the night…” he drifted back to sleep, and at the same moment, she was gone.

It was not quite 5 am when we called the man from her small-town mortuary. He drove through dark hours of morning storms to pick her up and transport her home, 112 miles to her final resting place. As everyone wandered around the small apartment, unsure what to do with themselves as we waited for his arrival, I sat in Nana's recliner and pulled my sleeping son into my lap, watching the directionless efforts of a family that had collectively been reduced to a stupor.

Finally the hearse arrived. After a final farewell, I took my son to a nearby indoor play place. I didn't want him to witness the brutal process of transferring the body from her peaceful position in the bedroom to the vehicle that resembled an old-time station wagon.

As we entered the play place, he kicked off his shoes and ran to play, with the light-hearted abandon of one too young to know grief. Numb from lack of sleep and the unreal evening I’d just spent, I sank into the nearest booth to watch him let loose all the youthful energy he’d somehow known to curtail over the last 24 hours. The sweet sound of a small child singing reached my table, and momentarily stopped my heart. The cherubic voice lilted across the play area: “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me…”

Had I lost my mind? My eyes darted over the nearly-empty play area. It was Monday morning, and we were the only people there besides the staff. “I once was lost, but now am found…”

I suddenly became aware of the TV monitors stationed above the entrance doors and by the eating section. They showed various popular cable cartoons, but the place was usually so crowded, you couldn’t hear the audio – in fact I had always thought they just left the sound off in the first place. But today, the sound was on. I looked up just in time to see a young cartoon child with a choir robe, finishing her solo, “Was blind, but now I see…”

Sitting alone, watching my son romp in a nearby ball pool, I finally let myself cry.


When she first got sick, my son and I had moved to Nana's house to look after it so she wouldn't have to worry about leaving it unattended while she recovered from her bypass surgery. Now the whole family converged upon the house, which stopped being my home overnight. I struggled to host them as Nana would have wanted, while packing my belongings and making arrangements to move back to the city.

The funeral was held on Friday the 13th. Nana would have enjoyed the irony. Later that night, my cousin and I drove over to the cemetery in the dark. For some reason, the two of us were having more difficulty dealing with her passing than the rest of the family seemed to be. Perhaps it was because we needed her more than the others had, or maybe it was because we two didn’t have the same residual support system in her absence. Whatever the reason, we felt drawn to that place, and we sat for hours, remembering Nana and celebrating her.

I told him about my curious experience with the “Amazing Grace” phenomenon. He found unusual solace in my tale, convinced it was Nana’s way of letting me know she’s still with me. Smiling at the idea that something beyond coincidence was at play, I gave him a big hug and for the first time felt like maybe things would be ok.

Everyone else had gone to bed by the time we got back from our sojourn to the cemetery. I snuck to Nana’s bookshelf to find something to read, hoping to distract myself enough to be able to sleep. My hand brushed a small, unassuming book with old-fashioned green binding, which sported a golden star on the spine rather than a title. I absently pulled it from the shelf as I shifted my son from the middle of the hide-a-bed and snuggled down next to him. When I leaned over to kiss his forehead, the book fell open. I glanced down to see it was a book of poetry. Or were they lyrics? I only read the first two pages before I fell into a content, peace-filled sleep:

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found;
Was blind, but now I see.

’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears relieved;
How precious did that grace appear
The hour I first believed.

Through many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come;
’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promised good to me,
His Word my hope secures;
He will my Shield and Portion be,
As long as life endures.

Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess, within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.

The earth shall soon dissolve like snow,
The sun forbear to shine;
But God, Who called me here below,
Shall be forever mine.

When we’ve been there ten thousand years,
Bright shining as the sun,
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
Than when we’d first begun.

Thank you, Nana.