My friend Robbe recently wrote an essay about Passage, a quaint video game that symbolizes the brevity of life and inevitability of death. I’ve never played Passage; in fact, I played it for the first time before writing this essay.
After starting Passage, I instantly thought of The Legend of Zelda, a fantasy game that debuted on the Nintendo Entertainment System1 (NES) in 1986. Players direct the hero, Link, through the fictional land Hyrule in his quest to rescue Princess Zelda (much like Mario and his odyssey to rescue Princess Peach from Bowser).
Unlike other games developed for the NES, The Legend of Zelda cartridge featured an internal battery for saving progress. In other words, if Link died, resurrection was available by pressing a few buttons. Not so for Passage. Death is final. There are no save features or cheat codes to evade the end.
Robbe published his essay about Passage five days after my grandmother died. I read his article that evening as grief filled my soul and I pondered the upcoming funeral plans for her. Aside from serving as a pallbearer, I resolved to be available for my mother and provide any assistance or solace she sought throughout the day.
Many family members and friends came to Jeanne’s funeral, though she’s affectionately referred to as “Mana” by her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. In the Torah, there’s a story about God providing the Israelites with bread (manna) from heaven to sustain them on their journey.
That’s what Jeanne embodied as a mother and a grandmother: provision and sacrifice. She gave of herself. She managed a home, raised two daughters, and outlived two husbands. She tended a garden, sang in the church choir, and loved others well.
Mana’s passage at ninety-three years ended in her bed at home. A crisp, white sheet kept her snug as the final breath drifted into the still bedroom morning—a final hymn without words. I received a text from my mom around 8 a.m. as our family woke up in Pigeon Forge. We knew Mana might die before leaving for Tennessee, so I asked my mother if she wanted me to stay home or take the kids to Dollywood. She told me to go.
I felt off-kilter at the park. The kids laughed on the rides, oblivious to the loss I felt so acutely. I smiled at their delight as I pondered the passage of my last grandparent. No more grandmothers. No more grandfathers. And no father (he perished in 2016). I feel deeply alone at times, but that’s an essay for another time. That said, I’m relying on the wisdom and lessons learned from my grandparents and parents to become a better parent myself.
The best memory I have of Mana is the simplest: Sunday dinner. I remember riding to her home after church regularly for a late lunch that consisted of meat, veggies, and dessert. And rolls. To this day, I still remember the dinner rolls and the Parkay squeeze butter. Kids remember the weirdest things. In short, Mana prepared an amazing table for her family.
After lunch, we sat on the porch, played in the yard, or pestered Gramps (my grandfather) about changing the golf game to a channel everyone would enjoy. He usually obliged and gave us a candy bar or package of M&M’s before leaving.
Now it’s Mana’s turn to have a table prepared before her, complete with Parkay squeeze butter, as she dwells in the house of the Lord forever.2
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I don’t remember many of the gifts I received for Christmas as a kid; however, staring at a Nintendo Entertainment System under the tree in 1988 (or 1989) has stayed with me forever. On a related note, my grandfather (Mana’s first husband) purchased The Legend of Zelda for me as a Christmas gift, but since the game is full of magic and spells, and I grew up in a conservative home, my mother promptly returned it. I was furious.
Psalm 23.