Mary

In May, Annabelle and I drove to Friona, Texas to visit my grandmother, Mary Lee Talley. I had been warned that she would be much weaker than last time I had seen her, that she might not remember me. When we walked into the home where she was staying, we found her sitting in the entryway with many of her neighbors. She was holding a stack of papers, shuffling through them slowly while the old men and women around her craned for a better look. When we walked up to hug her, I could see that the papers she was holding were pictures of my Annabelle that someone had printed off for her from emails. When she saw us she lit up and said, “And there she is, my African baby!”

As I feared it might be, that was the last afternoon I spent with my Granny. Three days ago she passed away. Though she went quickly, faster than my dad could fly back to the States to be at her bedside, her death at 87 was not a shock. I say that even though in many ways death always seems like a surprise doesn’t it? As though it is not patiently waiting for each of us. As cliché as this truth is, we have all found ourselves celebrating through our tears this week. The thought of her at complete rest, reunited with her own parents and grandparents, with the love of her life from age sixteen, it’s hard to be too sad. We grieve our own loss. Like many of my cousins, as a grandchild I grieve the promotion of my parents to the next generation at the front of the line. But we can’t help but be anything but happy for her.

I wasn’t especially close to my granny and I feel far away from the commemoration of her life now. But even so I feel like I have my own unique touch of sadness and happiness this week. Yesterday we went in for our 20 week ultrasound here in Nairobi. The doctor patiently worked the wand across my jellified belly as the grainy image of our wiggly baby twitched across the screen. He finally settled on a good angle and squinting into the monitor told us with a grin that we have a healthy, (energetic!), beautiful baby girl.

She will be Mary Katherine, named after the paternal grandmother she never had the chance to meet. It makes me smile to imagine them crossing paths on their way in and out of this world, my Granny and her newest African baby. I know Granny would give her a wet kiss right on the lips just like she always did to all of us regardless of how young or old or distantly related to her we were. And I can only hope that in the handing off of a name, some of the residual love from a life well-lived will still cling to it as it is passed on to my daughter.

You are already so loved, Mary Katherine. You carry the name of one God chose above all others for the most honorable task a woman has ever had. You carry the name of one who loved her husband and children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren all of her life with apple-cakes, hand-made quilts, the occasional spanking and lots and lots of wet-lipped kisses. We can’t wait to see how you will make this name your own, how you will serve God and love people. We can’t wait to meet you, sweet girl.