What Losing My Grandparents Taught Me About Living In Light of Eternity

Opa was a strong Dutchman. When I think of him, I think of his mental intelligence, his ability to withstand hardship, his humor, and his physical strength. He immigrated to Canada soon after WWII with his wife, a suitcase, and little to nothing to his name.

Soon, babies started arriving. My aunt was born in a tiny outbuilding on a farm with holes in the walls. My grandparents didn’t speak English when they came, but they knew how to get by on pennies and work hard. 

Oma had five girls in six years. My Opa worked hard and eventually began his own woodcutting business, building one of the largest tree services in the area. They learned English, bought a house, and raised girls who knew how to work hard and be good citizens.

They raised a girl who would become my mom, and one day, she was invited to a local church where she began attending Sunday school. Over time, she became a Christian. My grandparents, who were raised in a strong Dutch Reformed church, weren’t sure they deserved salvation but began visiting as well. They rarely missed a Sunday.

Memories are a funny thing. I remember the smell of their house, the crisp air and snow piles when we played outside, doing my Opa’s hair in silly barrettes, and being bored and then fascinated by the things I’d find in the nooks and crannies of their home.

I remember my Opa’s huge hands, my Oma’s stern demeanor but soft heart and smile, and watching Jeopardy. I can still hear the creak of their old wood furniture, hear Oma tsk at Opa for saying something silly, Oma beating us all at shuffleboard, my Opa’s huge wood barn, and walking for miles and miles, trying to keep up with my Oma.

The Toll of Age

Then age began to take its toll. First, my Oma became terminally ill. Even when she was on dialysis every night, she would walk for miles. They flew down to visit me in college, and sent boxes of Dialysis equipment to Alaska to visit my parents there. 

Life slowed down for them, but they continued to live it. Eventually, they moved into a care facility, and things were gradually lost. The walks. Licenses. And my Opa’s memory.

What became of utmost concern to them was whether God really cared to forgive them and if Jesus really loved them. A struggle they had faced their entire lives became a frequent topic of conversation. 

My Oma passed away first, and I was able to see her shortly before she died, when I was pregnant with my firstborn. Her last words to me were, “Take care of your baby.” But I remember the love in her eyes. 

By the time my Opa was ready to die, he had lost most of his memory. But he remembered her. And he always wanted to pray with people when they offered.

I flew back with my mom and was with him when he took his last breath. That’s something that’s hard to forget. I heard his last breath, and mine caught within me. A life I loved, a life well-lived, passed into the next and finally met Jesus face-to-face.

Hard and Beautiful

This life is full of hard things and beautiful things. Suffering and pain are difficult realities, but the beauty of them is that they are always an opportunity to know more of Jesus and understand more of what those around us have faced. Times of laughter and enjoyment hold great value, and their beauty is how they remind us of what is to come in eternity.

When it comes to the end of our lives, it won’t be the pains or joys, the wrinkles, the objects we own, or the state of our physical bodies that we ultimately care about. It will be our standing before Christ that matters to our souls.

As a young girl, I heard my pastor’s wife say to think of things “in light of eternity” over and over. I would encourage you to do the same today. Live your life well. Cry in the pain and laugh in the times of ease. But never let your gaze stray from the one who breathed life into you from the beginning, and will welcome you as that same breath departs from you at the end.