Gramma Jean--February 2, 2019--Feast of the Presentation

On the day I was born, so goes the story in my family, my father was so nervous that he spent most of the time in the bathroom with diarrhea. My grandfather was pacing the waiting room, and my grandmother was upset. She thought she was too young to be a grandmother. She was a beautiful woman with youthful features, and she was adamantly opposed to being thought of as old in any way. She had already decided in her mind that this child-to-be would call her "Aunt Jean" and never "Grandma."

Then I came.

Gramma Jean told me five million times that the first second she saw me, she fell completely in love. She would stand at the window looking into the hospital nursery for so long that a nurse pulled the curtain in her face to try to get her to leave.

Since the very fist moment of my life, Gramma Jean and I were inseparable. She bought me clothes, took me to see a Russian ballet company perform The Nutcracker, taught me to play the piano, and showed me how to blow the paper off your straw across the restaurant. I had memorized her phone number before I memorized my own, and I knew how to call her to tell her what I did that day or if someone upset me or, most of all, to ask her if I could come stay with her and Pawpaw for the weekend. In all my life, I have never loved anyone more than I loved her, and no one has ever loved me as much as she did.

This morning, around 9am, my Gramma Jean died. She had been in very poor health for many years, and the nursing home where she lived was her own idea of hell. Her death came as something of a relief for both her and me, even though it has left an enormous hole in my heart.

I can remember when I was a little boy, I sat on the counter in front of the huge mirror and piles and piles of beauty products where Gramma Jean undertook her daily routine--of at least an hour--of applying her make-up and doing her hair. With every brush, bottle, or palate she picked up, I would ask, "What's that?" She would patiently explain every single step, and sometimes would even put a little on my face.

"Everyone looks better with a little make-up," she would say as she caked her face in the foundation she used every day.

I can still smell the sweetness of her powder and the pungent, spicy smell of Elizabeth Arden "Red Door."

Gramma Jean and Pawpaw c. 1960

My grandmother might be accused of being vain, but I don't think that was exactly the case. What Gramma Jean believed intensely was that appearances matter. She believed that you couldn't just roll out of bed and face the world. You had to prepare yourself. You had to make yourself into the best person you could be, and you had to put on your red lipstick and go into the world confidently even when you feel like you can't possibly go on.

Today, on the Feast of the Presentation, I am in México with a group of clergy and lay leaders from the Diocese of New York taking a two-week Spanish intensive. This morning, I knew what was coming, and I felt like crawling under my covers and hiding forever. Gramma Jean would have hated this. She would have told me to put on my brightest, reddest lipstick, spray my Red Door perfume, find some big, stylish sunglasses and a big floppy hat, and hit the road with a toothy grin on my face. I didn't wear any lipstick, perfume, or hat, but I did take a shower and go with my group to visit the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico City.

Today we celebrate the Feast of the Presentation, and the words of Simeon are ringing loudly in my ears:

"Lord, you now have set your servant free *
   to go in peace as you have promised;

For these eyes of mine have seen the Savior, *
   whom you have prepared for all the world to see:

A Light to enlighten the nations, *
   and the glory of your people Israel" (Book of Common Prayer, 135).

Simeon had waited his whole life to see the messiah. He remembered the promise God had made to his people and how God had never abandoned them. He remembered that even in exile and even under Roman conquest, God kept God's promises and delivered God's people. Then, finally, he got to see God made man in the baby Jesus, brought to the Temple by his mother and father.

Gramma Jean c. 1960

In no way do I equate myself with Christ. However, I do believe there are some parallels here. Gramma Jean spent much of her life praying, playing the church organ, and studying Holy Scripture. When we cleared out her library, I found at least a half dozen Bibles, and every single one was covered in highlighter and notes in the margins. She studied the Holy Scriptures every single day, and they taught her that even when life feels unbearable, God never abandons us. God loves us and keeps us, and, for that reason, we can put on our red lipstick and heels and run into the world in faith. She also got to see me and my brother Michael grow into men shaped by the love she and my grandfather taught us. Even though she always had an aversion to growing old, I know that she died having seen the messiah in this world, and today she rests eternally in his arms.

I am deeply grieved, dear readers. My very best friend and the closest ally I have ever had has died, and my life can never be the same. The pain in my heart is almost unbearable. However--I still have hope. I still cling to faith. I know that Gramma Jean saw the savior and today sees the savior, and one day we all will dwell together in that land where there is neither suffering nor death.

I will head to bed after I write this, and I will get up early tomorrow to go to a church here in Cuernavaca, Morelos, México. I will feel like hiding under the covers, but I will put on my red lipstick and heels--or at least my alb and green stole--and I will walk into the world with my head held high. Gramma Jean taught me that. She taught me that God will never forsake me, and I know she will be walking alongside me the whole way.