No Wheelchairs In Heaven
No Wheelchairs In Heaven
My grandfather was a Buddhist priest. At the time of his death, he was the
highest-ranking Caucasian priest in the world. But it was not the distinction
of his accolades that one noticed in grandfather's presence; it was the energy
that emanated from within. Grandpa's clear green eyes sparkled with a mysterious
vitality. Although a quiet man, he always stood out in a crowd. Grandfather
had a radiance that emanated from within. Silence seemed to speak profoundly
around him.
His wife, my grandmother, was a High Roman Catholic. Brilliant and energetic,
she was a woman ahead of her time. I called her "Gagi" because the first word
that came out of my mouth as a baby was "gaga," and she was sure I was trying
to say her name. So Gagi it was, and is to this day.
Gagi had wrapped her life around her husband, becoming the source for all the
income for themselves and their five children during their 50 years of
marriage. Grandfather was thus freed to fulfill his mission as a priest and
minister to the needy, and as a host to the visiting dignitaries that
frequented his temple from around the world.
When Grandpa died, the light went out in Gagi's life, and a deep depression set
in. Having lost her central focus, she retreated from the world and entered the
stages of mourning and grief.
During those days, I made a habit of visiting her once a week, just to let her
know that I was there for her.
Time passed, as always, and the healing of the heart took its true and natural
course.
One day, some years later, I went to pay my usual visit to Gagi. I walked in
to find her sitting in her wheelchair, beaming, alive with fire in her eyes.
When I didn't comment soon enough about the obvious change in her demeanor,
she confronted me.
"Don't you want to know why I'm so happy? Aren't you even curious?"
"Of course, Gagi," I apologized. "Tell me, why are you so happy? What has
given you this new disposition?"
"Last night I got an answer. I finally know why God took your grandfather and
left me behind," she declared.
"Why, Gagi?" I asked.
Then, as if imparting the greatest secret in the world, she lowered her voice
and leaned forward in her wheelchair and confided in me. "Your granfather
knew the secret of a good life and he lived it every day. Your grandfather
had become unconditional love in action. That's why he got to go first, and I
had to stay behind." She paused thoughtfully, and then continued.
"What I thought was a punishment was, in fact, a gift. God let me stay behind
so that I could turn my life into love. You see," she continued, "last night I
was shown that you can't learn the lesson of love out there." She pointed to
the sky as she spoke. "Love has to be lived here on earth; once you leave it's
too late. So I was given the gift of life so that I can learn to live love here
and now."
From that day on my visits with Gagi were filled with a unique combination of
both sharing and constant surprises. Even though her health was failing, she
was really happy. Indeed, she finally had a reason for her life and a goal
worth living for again.
Once, when I went up to see her, she pounded the arm of her wheelchair in
excitement and said, "You'll never guess what happened this morning." I
responded that I couldn't and she continued with growing enthusiasm. "Well,
this morning your uncle was angry with me over something I had done. I didn't
even flinch. I received his anger, wrapped it in love and returned it with
joy!" Her eyes twinkled as she added, "It was even kind of fun, and naturally,
his anger dissolved."
Day after day passed, and visit after visit added up, while Gagi practiced her
lessons in love, and all the while age continued to run its relentless course.
Every visit was a new adventure as she shared her stories. She conquered
mountains of habits within her and made herself constantly new. She was
honestly giving birth to a new and vital being.
Over the years, her health gradually worsened. She went in and out of the
hospital a lot. Finally, when she was 97, she entered the hospital just after
Thanksgiving. I rode the elevator to the fourth floor and went to the nurses'
station. "Which room is Mrs. Hunt in?" I asked.
The nurse on duty looked up quickly from her work, pulled her glasses off and
replied, "You must be her granddaughter! She's expecting you and she asked us
to keep an eye out for your arrival." She came out from behind the nurses'
station saying, "Let me take you to her." As we started down the hallway, the
nurse suddenly stopped, and looking directly into my eyes she said quietly,
"Your grandmother is a special lady, you know. She's a light. The nurses on
the floor all ask for her room when they're on duty. They love to take her medication
to her because they all say that there's something about her." She paused,
almost embarrassed at the thought of having said too much. "But of course, you
know that."
"She's special, all right," I reflected, and a small voice whispered within,
"Gagi has accomplished her goal. Her time is nearly done."
It was two days after Christmas. Having spent a couple of hours visiting with
Gagi earlier that day, I was home in the evening relaxing when a voice
suddenly came to me, "Get up! Go to the hospital, now! Don't hesitate! Go to
the hospital now!" I threw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, jumped into the
car and sped to the hospital.
Parking the car quickly, I broke into a run, racing the rest of the way to the
elevator and up to the fourth floor. As I hit the door of her room, I looked
in to see my aunt holding Gagi's head in her hands. She looked up with tears
in her eyes. "She's gone, Trin," she said. "She left five minutes ago.
You're the first one here."
My mind reeled as I moved to Gagi's bedside. In prayerful denial, my hand
went out to test her heart. It was silent; Gagi was gone. I stood holding her
still warm arm, looking down at the beautiful old body that had housed the soul
of the woman I had adored. Gagi had cared for me during my early years. She
had clothed me and paid my way through school when my parents were young and
struggling to make ends meet. I was at a loss, unable to believe that my
beloved grandmother, my dearest Gagi, was gone.
I remember the aching emptiness as I walked the floor around her bed that night,
touching every part of her precious body. I was overwhelmed, flooded with
impressions I'd never experienced before. Here were the arms and legs I knew
so well, but where was she? Her body was vacant; so where had she gone? Deep
in inner thought, I begged for an answer. One moment the body is animated by
the soul and in the next moment it is gone, and nothing on earth can cause it
to move or have life again. Where was Gagi? Where had she gone?
Suddenly there was a flash of light and a burst of energy. My grandmother was
hovering near the ceiling above her empty body. The wheelchair was gone and
she was dancing in light.
"Trin, I'm not gone!" she exclaimed. "I left my body but I'm still here. Look,
Trin, I've got the use of my legs back. There are no wheelchairs in heaven,
you know. I'm with your grandfather now and my joy is boundless. As you look
down at my vacant body, realize the secret of life. Always remember that you
cannot take anything physical with you when you leave. I couldn't take my body
with me, nor all the money I earned in life, nor any of the things that I
amassed. Even my most prized possession, your grandfather's wedding ring, had
to stay behind when I left."
Gagi's light was very bright as she continued, "You're going to meet a lot of
people, Trin, and you must share this truth with all whom you meet. Tell
people that the only thing that we take with us when we leave is a record of
how much love we gave away. Our life, my child, is measured in giving, not
in taking." And with that my grandmother's light dissolved and disappeared.
Many years have passed since that bedside moment, yet my grandmother's message
remains. It is indelibly inscribed on my heart, and written in the little things
I try to do to improve my character daily. Gagi loved me with all her heart.
In the course of her lifetime she had showered me with gifts, but I knew that
she had just given me her final and greatest gift. In her death she renewed
my life.
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