Let The Healing Begin A series of articles and poems stemming from the article:
By J.S. Ramkissoon
In Loving Memory of W. A. Peddie
The News:
I remember it like it was yesterday. It was my accounts paper, the last of my exams. I was having fun answering my final question when half-way through it something happened - I froze. No, it wasn’t memory block, I just froze and a weird feeling came over me.
Arriving home that night, I was greeted at the door by mom. I could see relatives seated in the living room, an unusual site for a weekday. So immediately, I knew that something had gone terribly wrong. Dreading the answer, I asked: “What’s wrong?” They all looked at me with pity in their eyes, then mother replied: “Papa gone!”
Grieving Process:
Shock:-
What followed next was strange--I entered a zone I had not been before. I ran to the bedroom (still holding onto my folder and rucksack) threw myself onto the bed and I was out of control. The tears kept flowing, the sound of my cry got louder and louder and their voices in the background became distant and made no sense to me.
I knew they were only trying to comfort me, but I had a dream which could no longer come true. It was always my intention to return home and spend time with grandpa and take him places, shower him with gifts and let him know how much I love him and appreciate the time that he and grandma invested in bringing me up. But that was no longer possible.
Anger:-
I was angry with myself for not going back before, angry at mom for taking me away in the first place, and nothing you could say to me, at the time, would help. So I cried and I cried some more but I could hear them saying: “Stop the crying…crying is not going to bring him back.” It was hard to imagine he wasn’t coming back. My imagination started to run wild and soon I started believing that 'grandpa' was gone abroad, on another trip, and soon would return.
Acceptance:-
This month (July 2006) is the 11th anniversary of his passing and maturity has allowed me to look back on the times we’ve had together with fun memories. I now accept that his time on earth has ended, so this month I celebrate his life and thank God for the time he was here with us.
One of my fun memories are story telling times with granddad. Granddad loved telling stories, often short and humorous. One story that stuck to my mind is that of a lady who had to walk many miles to the market to sell fruits. She was carrying a basket of fruits on her head when someone stopped to offer her a ride in a pickup van. She accepted the ride. However, instead of putting the basket down and taking a seat, she stood for the entire journey, carrying the load on her head. I used to get embarrassed when he tells that story as part of his sermons because my friends would all tease me about it. So once I see him get up and approach the pulpit, I always secretly hope that he wouldn’t tell that particular story.
However, today I can say: “Thank you granddad for repeating that story so many times.” Had it not been for the repetitiveness of that story, I would not have memorised it and hence, would not have been able to draw the necessary meanings from it. As an adult I often am reminded to take my burdens to the cross, and leave it there; knowing that I do not have to carry the load all the way, simply by visualising granddad on the pulpit telling that one story.
The moment I froze in that accounts exam, I later learned that it was the appointed time when granddad was called home. Granddad's work on earth had ended, for him 'it is finished'.
I was told that he called all the grandchildren around his death bed and gave them all individual responsibilities, including looking after grandma and remembering the Creator in the days of 'thy youth'. Though I wasn't at his side, our spirit somehow connected at that point. I wonder what task he had for me and whether through the spirit I have received?
He has left behind children, grandchildren and great grandchildren who in their own individual way has a task to carryout until the day we're called home or our Saviour comes.
© July 2006 J.S. Ramkissoon
