“Come Before Winter”

 

A number of years ago, when I was in the cities during the late fall season, I remember heading north on the freeway on my way out of town. The day had been overcast and chilly and an increasingly bitter north wind greeted me every time I exited the car. The sun, which hadn’t been visible all day anyway, decided this was as good a time as any to drop out of the picture all together, taking with it what little light there had been.

As the procession of headlights angled past me, I could see the first snowflakes of the coming winter season. They appeared to be frantic, trying to avoid the oncoming rush of glass windshields and chrome grills …chaotic and uncertain, as if they’d been hurled prematurely into this unwelcome environment. Although the flakes were sparse, nonetheless, they were flakes; harbingers of what was to come.

Something about this imagery, in but an instant, mirrored the chaos and uncertainty of life that is often triggered by moments like these.

My thoughts turned to my grandmother who was being cared for in a rest home just a few miles north of where I was traveling. “Winter was coming, winter was on its way,” recycled over and over again in my mind.

Grandma was no longer a fan of winter. As she had journeyed into her nineties, she began encouraging the ice and snow to find a new home, just as she had had to do. Winters grow long for old folks, like extended shadows on stark snowscapes.

By this time, I had approached the turnoff I would need to take if I was to continue heading north. As I looked ahead to check traffic, I recalled these words …the very words an imprisoned and fading Apostle Paul wrote to his young disciple Timothy, “Come before winter …do your best to get here as fast as you can.”

I felt a sense of urgency, an awareness of my own mortality, of becoming frail and alone …the vulnerability and disquietude that comes with being imprisoned by your own body.

Involuntary emotions welled-up; both endearing love and empathy rallied my decision to visit grandma.

As I bypassed the exit ramp and moments later turned into the parking lot of the rest home, I could see the seemingly motionless frames of men and women silhouetted behind bald windows in the very ordinary brick building. I pulled my coat collar up alongside my face as I exited the car and dashed to the entrance doors, quickly using the required combination of buttons to gain entrance. I acknowledged the receptionist, dutifully signed in and headed into the elevator. The elevator labored as it began its ascent and I, once again, reacquainted myself with the odorous perfumes of aging.

As I made my way down the long hallway, nearing her room, I could hear someone crying out, “Help me, please help me.” I quickened my pace and entered her room. It was grandma. She laid half-on half-off her bed …her cotton bedclothes wrestling with the blankets, her transparent hands clutching to hang on.

I bent over her, securing her in my arms. Her face was rawboned, no longer softened by the blush evidence of her younger years.

“Grandma, Grandma,” I whispered in her ear, “It’s Garry. Marlene and Howard’s son.”

A frail arm with delicate fingers pulled me to her lips, “Garry,” she breathed. And I could feel her body sigh.

Then she spoke these words, which I will never forget. “You have always been the most loving…”

In the sacred moments that followed, my tears anointed her face as I wrapped her in the sanctuary of my arms and prayed. Yes, prayed … hoping to delay winter’s coming.

Editor’s note: This is a reprint of an article Garry wrote three years ago.