Jackson, on his nana’s death

This is long, so kick your shoes off and stay a while.

When it was time to tell the boys that Brenda had passed, I sat them both down in the living room and said we needed to talk. Jeremy chose to sit opposite me while Jackson chose not to sit at all. I didn’t skirt the issue but instead quite plainly said, “Nana passed away yesterday.”

Jeremy’s face went flush and Jackson looked at me blankly. I could tell he didn’t know what I meant, so I put it even more plainly, “Nana died.”

“Where’s Hank?” Jackson asked, obviously relating “died” to the only other living being he’s known to be associated with that word.

“Hank’s in heaven with Nana,” I told him. My four year old either didn’t process what I said or he simply filed the information away and went directly into turning somersaults on the living room rug, a new skill he learned in school. Instantly I was fret with fear that he’d turn somersaults down the funeral home chapel aisle and I’d be chasing him down with a lecture about appropriate funeral decorum.

Since the flight home was wonderfully uneventful (they love the Sky Mall magazine) –

– we can fast forward to the first visitation in Chattanooga Tuesday evening.

The boys were dressed smartly in jeans, polos and sports coats. On the way, we warned them that family members, friends and strangers would approach them, inquire about their life in Texas, and maybe even show physical affection (that last bit was an important warning for Jeremy – he’s too cool for that mushy stuff now). I admit I was nervous. Despite my own delusions about death and dying, I was concerned that the boys would be scared, uneasy, inappropriate, rude to others, and busy-bodies. How in the world could I control it all?

God bless the genius who decided to put playrooms in funeral homes.

No sooner did we enter the visitation room and see a long line of Brenda’s mourners did a funeral home usher come up to me and whisper, “There’s a playroom down the hall to your left.” Relief washed over my face as I thanked him, and after making a small entrance to wave hello to folks we knew, Jackson and I retreated to the playroom where he could be as loud and bold as he pleased. Both Karin and Amy, along with a handful of old friends from Oakwood, sat with me throughout the night.

The visitation in Maryville on Wednesday night was much the same. Jackson and I stayed in the funeral home’s playroom while extended family members popped in to say hello. We had successfully made it through two visitations, but the funeral service and burial were still to come. It was the funeral, by far, that worried me the most, as Jackson would need to sit quietly – and still – for nearly an hour.

I brought the iPod with a stored backlog of Backyardigans episodes and situated us on the far end of the front pew near an escape door. The moment Jack lost his mind, I’d be outta there. I had the entire exit planned.

But then something amazing and supernatural occurred. With only a Lightning McQueen matchbox car in his hand, Jackson sat through 45 minutes of speaking, singing and moments of silence without so much as a peep. He barely wiggled or jiggled, which prompted Chuck and I to exchange looks of shock throughout the service.

Towards the end of Pastor Ken’s short message was Jackson’s first sound – he was thirsty, so I whispered that he could get a drink when we were all done. I reminded him to be quiet and we’d be done soon.

As soon as the closing prayer was over and Paster Ken closed his Bible, Jackson announced in plain voice, “It’s done!

A giggle rippled through the chapel. My eyes went large as I shushed Jackson, but I knew the comic relief was okay. No one would scold me or him, for both boys’ behavior were perfect and appropriate.

The next afternoon was the burial, and we had already set ourselves up for a risky service from letting the boys stay up until midnight. (The funeral was at 8 p.m., so after eating and visiting with family, it wasn’t a situation to be helped.) It was chilly on the mountain in Townsend that day, so we kept the boys in the van with a movie at the cemetery until the last possible minute. When it was time to walk down the hillside to the burial site, both boys were whiny, tired, and hungry. I secretly prayed the minister’s graveside service would be shorter than longer.

We took our front row seats before the casket, which was the closest Jackson and I had been to it thus far. It was adorned with an arrangment of pink roses and white doves, and it was situated above the already-dug hole. It was this hole that kept Jackson in constant confusion. Though he was mostly quiet, several times throughout the short service, he’d boldly ask, “What’s in there? Can I see?”

I whispered in his ear, “That’s where Nana will be buried. Now be quiet please.”

A few minutes would pass and he’d say again, too loudly, “What’s in there?”

My answers were never sufficient. He wanted to look inside that mysterious hole and see for himself where the casket would go. Wiggling on my lap, I whispered again – Sit still. Please be quiet. We’re almost done.

At the closing prayer, I bowed my head with relief. We’d made it. We could end the week of services without embarrassment but rather with sweet and solemn memories. I peeked at Jackson during the prayer, and though he had his hands folded, he was still eye-balling that hole in the ground.

The pastor said, “Amen,” and, of course, so did Jack, loudly again so everyone could hear.

Then he promptly hopped off my lap and went straight to the casket to take a good look down that hole.

“What’s in there?” he asked again, pointing to the grave. This unnerved me because people were crying – sobbing – and it wasn’t the time or place to indulge this question.

Instead of answering, I took his hand and said, “Let’s go get a snack.” He agreed, and he hasn’t asked me again about it since.

While only snapshots of memories will linger in Jackson’s mind about the week of his nana’s death, Jeremy has an entire mini-series of events and curiosities that he has no doubt mulled over since last weekend.

But that’s another post.

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