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A death in the family

Grandma died on Tuesday morning. Her funeral was yesterday. She was 98, but it was still sad.

Without any disrespect to my other Grandma, it's fair to say that Grandma was my favourite. Although we probably saw her and Grandpa less often, we always looked forward to seeing them. Maybe they had more to say to us or paid more attention, or maybe Grandma remembered birthdays and always sent a package—wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, one of my favourite things.

I have to say that lately we didn't see much of her. Just Christmases and other times when Mum brought her for afternoon tea when we visited. As her memory faded, she didn't seem to recognise us as much, and it was harder to talk. I feel sorry about that, but it's just life. We're busy with our own children, and time flies away more and more quickly.

It was important, then for us to take our children to the funeral yesterday, and it was very valuable for us. Partly for them to honour and mourn their last Great-Grandma, but also to learn about death.

When we cried, we cried together. As I hugged my young son and wiped his tears and mine, I explained to him that although Grandma had died, death does not win. Jesus, I told him, beat death when he rose to life again. And because of that, although we were sad now, one day God will wipe all tears from our eyes and there will be no more sadness or mourning, because there will be no more death.

I hope I will see Grandma again on that day.

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