The Cookie Jar by John Pete

When I was about 23-years old I was visiting my grandparents on the farm where they lived in Texas, and my grandmother, with whom I had always been especially close, took me aside and asked me if there was something special I would like from her personal belongings to remember her by when she died. I was a somewhat taken aback by the mere thought or possiblity of her dying - ever, but I knew the answer to her question immediately - The Cookie Jar. My grandmother had a “smiling bear cub” cookie jar with a green old-fashined “cap” for a lid on the kitcher counter for as far back into my childhood as I could remember. And it was always filled with homemade or store bought cookies, candy or other delicious treats.

That uncomplicated time early in my life is a much cherished era, and I have always felt a special bond between grandma’s cookie jar and countless happy childhood memories spent with my grandparents. So I was pleasantly surprised as I packed to return home the next morning, when my grandmother boxed up the cookie jar and handed it to me, saying she wanted me to have it now while she was still alive. I didn’t protest too much, and still cherish Grandma’s cookie jar to this very day, over 20-years later. 

Oftentimes late at night, from my early childhood to late teen years, after everyone had gone to bed, Grandma would bring out her secret stash of cookies or other goodies from the cookie jar with a clever smile as if we were sharing a special secret, then she would share riveting stories steeped in superstition and old family traditions as we snuggled up together to watch old movies, often until she nodded off next to me. Then one night when I was about 17-years old my grandma took my hand and said “Juanito” as she often called me, “I am getting old now, but I am not afraid to die.” Then she quickly added, “But I will let you know I am okay when I die.” And even then I knew she had spoken these words for my sake more than her own; to offer me words of comfort for what was to be inevitable. And that was that. If she said it, I believed without question that it was true. It was that simple.   

In 1989 my beloved grandmother passed away after a series of strokes and complications due to diabetes. And for as long as I live I will remember every detail of that day… My grandmother lookingso peaceful and looking so much younger in the casket than her seventy-years. I remember the hearbreaking scene when my grandfather broke down at the sight of her lying in state. And I remember the long drive to the small country cemetery in Texas where she is buried, and the most beautiful sky I have ever seen streaked with brilliant hues of orange and red and yellow and turquoise blue, following a brief spring rainshower. And I remember the familial unity as our clan gathered to say a heartbreaking goodbye to our much loved family member.  

Soon after the burial I flew home feeling and deep empty sadness that went beyond anything I had ever felt before. Since I was in the process of moving into a new house with two roommates, things were a bit hectic and yet I felt as if I was going through the motions of daily life, devoid of any happiness.

Then late one night, a few days after returning from trhe funeral, I carefully unpacked Grandma’s special cookie jar at my new home and placed it in a safe spot atop the refrigerator, and as almost as an afterthought I said “goodnight grandma” and turned to leave the room. Almost instantly the kitchen lights went completely off for two or three seconds, then came back on and I felt a kind of energy surrounding where I was standing. After a few moments of surprise and exhiliration, I loud woke up my roommates - and probably several neighbors, as well as I excitedly recanted my grandmother’s promise and what had just occurred. I knew instantly and without doubt that my dear grandmother had kept her promise to let me know she was okay from the other side, just as she told me she would years before.

Even today, all these years later, I sometimes feel my grandmother nearby when I smell the sweet scent of her flowery perfume from out of nowhere, or hear the welcome echos of stories from long ago nudging into my thoughts. And in response, I have comefully understand and appreciate the words spoken by St. John, who said, “He whom we love and lose is no longer where he was before. He is now wherever we are.” 

Rest in peace, Grandma. I look forward to a joyous reunion one day.

 

John Pete, GC-C, is a Certified Grief Counselor and Founder of www.MyGriefSpace.Net

The Phoenix by Marie Debellis-Sanchez

I sit here alone. My husband, 40 years of age and in the prime of his life ended his life last year by suicide. I feel like I am just beginning to emerge from some dark fog that has held my heart, soul and mind prisoner. Today, I sit alone, one child away on a date, one at a friends. A few years back I could have never imagined this would be my life, but here I am alone. I have often referred to my life on this journey of grief as being thrown in a fire. For a time I was in the midst of hell; the flames almost having a personality of their own. At times trying ever so hard to pull me into the burning embers. Each day has presented itself with a new struggle, a new obstacle to conquer. Being alone, I have had to become a jack of all trades, a handy woman if you will. A testament that one can stand alone even when they have been pushed to the breaking point. My journey through grief may not be unusual by any standards, but it is my journey through the flames and how I hope to emerge like a Phoenix with a loving heart, healthy soul and strong mind.

(Written: July 29th, 2008)