I feel deeply blessed to have just celebrated my Nana’s third birthday as a centenarian. It is a privilege to be in the presence of one who has come so far through time.
Here she is with her father, circa 1922, beside their house on Oxford Street in London, Ontario. The last of three children, she was his “baby”, and an unplanned birth – at least, from a human perspective.
Despite even the best of efforts, so many things in this life appear unplanned.
Fast forward a dozen years.
My great-grandfather died suddenly in that house at age 56, when my Nana (on her knees all night, frantic, beseeching God to let her father stay) was 18. In the decades that have followed since, she has remained quietly spiritual. I have not heard her say much on the subject of God.
Yet Nana has been vocal on the subject of her dad. Not once in the 52 years that I’ve known her, have I heard her speak in a tone any less than reverential about him.
As recently as two days ago, she lit up at at the sound of her father’s name. His hand still on her heart.
I imagine his warm smile and his voice on a plane of existence where, for all I know, a century passes like an afternoon at the fair. “You’ve lived this one out for both of us, Baby.”
It gives me solace to believe that one day soon, when she crosses back through the familiar veil, my Nana will be met by the same love that was always and ever present on both sides of it.