Maybe there’s a reason why it’s good not to know our own
future. Most of us have to deal with
things along the way that we’d assume we could never endure if we knew about
them in advance. And if we knew our
future, who could live without a tempered joy and an unrelenting sense of dread? We all know that into every life a little
rain must fall, but to know the nature of the storm and the timing would be
unbearable. Who wouldn’t want to pull
the covers over her head and refuse to get out of bed that day?
Enter Helen Cogswell Campbell—my grandmother. On
this day, September 29, in 1901. word got around Pittsburg, Kansas, that Samuel and Agnes Cogswell had a little baby girl named Helen. Grandmother lived to be 91 years old, but had she known what life held
for her, I wonder if she’d have taken a pass.
She never knew her beloved husband, who went out on an early
morning fishing trip/duck hunt with every intention of returning by 10:00 a.m.
so he could take his family to church, would never come home again. His gun accidentally went off as he was
reaching for it in his boat, and he was killed on that October Sunday morning in Moore
Haven, Florida, in 1933. Grandmother was
left with two daughters, 5 and 2.
She never knew that because of the Great Depression and her
inability to provide for herself and her girls she would have to return to
Branson, Missouri, and move in with her parents and siblings—a move born of necessity rather than desire. It was an angry household
with enough alcohol abuse to create a tense environment for everybody.
She never knew she would work several penny-ante jobs to try
to provide on her family, finally getting on as the high school secretary where
she was much loved by a couple of generations of students.
She never knew she would be the care-giver of her mother and
her aunt in their old age.
She never knew my mother would leave my father and move
herself and her three sons to Branson to live in my grandmother’s house.
She never knew she’d lose her much loved screened-in porch
to convert it into a bedroom for her three grandsons.
She never knew she’d spend the next twelve years as the
chief cook, bottle-washer, and laundry-maid for her daughter and grandsons.
She never knew her grandsons would tease her unmercifully, though she was a good sport about it all.
She never knew her other daughter and family (with four
kids) would also move into her house for a season. That’s eleven people in a small house with
one bathroom.
She never knew she'd stand at the grave of her youngest daughter well before she was laid in her own grave.
She never knew my mother would move her into a nursing home
when my grandmother needed more care than a working woman could provide. (Though grandmother wasn’t one to complain,
she hated living in that nursing home, and she lived there till she died.)
She never knew any of this was on the horizon or around the bend, but she navigated it all like
a champ. And in doing so, she set a
great example for all who knew her.
She never knew how much I would miss her all these years
later. I miss how she would tickle me
and make me laugh (the only significant adult touch I remember from my
childhood). I miss her fried chicken,
rice and gravy. I miss walking with her
to school when I was a kid (she never had a driver’s license). I miss seeing her in choir at church. I miss her humble, servant spirit and the
rare times I heard her quietly pray out loud—never more than whisper but I bet it sounded like a megaphone in heaven. I miss that I didn’t appreciate her as I should have in the moments we
shared. She never knew my feelings on any of these things.
She never knew she would go to heaven. She hoped
she would, she thought she would, but
she always struggled with a little doubt for reasons she never disclosed. So I can only imagine how it must have been
for her when she closed her eyes in death and opened them in heaven. She made it. I envision a sigh of relief and a big smile, the joy of seeing Jesus
face to face, and reunion with beloved family and friends who preceded her in
death.
Oh, and she never knew how much I appreciated her for her
sacrificial kindness to our family in a very difficult time. She never knew because I never told her. But because she and I share a common faith in
Jesus, she will know my gratitude when I see her again in heaven.
Maybe it’s a good thing we don’t know our own future—all the
twists and turns, ups and downs, thrills and heartaches, joys and griefs. Maybe that’s what keeps our faith stretching
and growing in those seasons. Maybe that’s what keeps our
dependence on Jesus strong and sure. And
maybe all those struggles make heaven even sweeter when we get there.
