in loving memory

Of Grammy and Chuck

(You can find an update on my posting schedule going forward at the end of this post for those of you who track with that sort of thing)

March 4, 2026

It rained last night, just like in the movies. Just like when the paramedics came to examine the body on Thursday and when my uncle retrieved Dad and Abby from the airport.

As it rained, we all donned our best black and treaded down the church aisle into three rows reserved up front for family. In the past, I had only paraded into a room at my graduations. I guess this is a sort of graduation for her — not the end of her existence, but a step into the next reality. At these kinds of ceremonies, the graduate crosses the threshold before we get to honor them. We celebrate that they have joined the great cloud of witnesses who die in faith, “not having received [all] the things promised, but having seen them and greeted them from afar, and having acknowledged that they were strangers and exiles on the earth.”¹

My grandmother held this earth in her heart, but it was not her hope. She “desired a better country, that is, a heavenly one.”² I was charged with leading worship for her funeral, and it only felt right to end with:

“Turn your eyes upon Jesus
Look full in His wonderful face
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim
In the light of His glory and grace”

I can picture her sitting on the couch, clasping her hands, and saying to the ceiling, “Lord, I just can’t wait to get to heaven one day. Only sad part is I won’t have my grandbabies with me,” and then she reaches for the nearest grandbaby and pats their leg.

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March 5, 2026

This morning felt like a dewy spring after last night’s rain softened the ground. We sat on slightly slanting chairs under a blue tent, waiting for the gravesite ceremony to begin. A chill nipped the air. Some people hesitated to speak; others didn’t want to be awkwardly silent. Eventually, out of a limousine on the left, my guy cousins (us girls got spared) lifted a cerulean blue casket. My dad and uncle took turns reading verses as the box paraded toward us, among them being:

“Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.”³

“Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.”⁴

My seventeen-year-old cousin played “Amazing Grace” on his violin — the same violin that ushered his other grandmother out of this world. We all cried. Afterward, as people lingered, my cousins and I pulled white flowers off the arrangement lying on her casket, though we knew they would fade just as her body did. I’m looking at mine on my desk, the petals crumpled and yellowed. All flesh is like a flower of the field. “Surely life is but a vapor, at best, but a vapor.”⁵

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March 31, 2026

Almost a month later, I walked off stage to find out that a dear family friend, Chuck, only had a few hours left to live. It was similar to how I learned that my grandma had passed, except there was still time to see him. I drove to Chuck’s house, opened the front door, and saw friends and family around his bed in the living room singing “How Great Thou Art.” A minute later, he was gone.

We remembered his life last Saturday — that dark day between the crucifixion and resurrection. Saturday sits in despair with us as we wait for the miraculous Sunday that none of Jesus’ friends imagined was coming.

Now, we know that it is coming.

We wait for the day when all the dead will rise, when we will be transformed in the twinkling of an eye, when we will see Chuck and my grandmother and your lost loved ones in Christ, too, in their resurrected bodies. Because Jesus died and rose, Chuck will be face-to-face with Him forever. He no longer suffers from cancer, and he’s reunited with his wife, who battled dementia. My grandmother can hear clearly right now for the first time in years. She has looked our Lord in the eye and been acknowledged for every time she died her daily death, every time she chose love over bitterness. Perhaps she’s even seen the bottle where He collected her tears.

Both of them lived looking to the reward. They sought the eternal homeland, laying aside every weight and sin, looking for a city not made by human hands: the place where death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, crying, or pain.

These former things will pass away. Our bodies pass away. But He is making all things new.

– Sarah

Precious in Your sight, O Lord
Is the death of Your saints
Whether wearing a martyr’s crown
Or the death that they die each day

– chorus by Chris Tofilon

P.S. For those of you who track these sorts of things, I’m going to experiment in April with posting biweekly instead of weekly. Three years ago (April 2023), I began sharing my writing weekly to hold myself accountable. Now, I have the consistency down but am finding I need time for reading/research, other writing projects, and putting quality into my work. A biweekly rhythm will likely feel sweet in that regard, but we’ll see if it sticks:) Thank you for being here and reading Threshold every week 🫶🏼 especially those of you who have been here since the beginning, before this was even on Substack!

1. Hebrews 11:13

2. Hebrews 11:16

3. Psalm 116:15

4. John 12:24

5. quote from “Eternity” by Misty Edwards