Hummingbird

 

 

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“Often, our Angels and loved ones in Spirit choose hummingbirds to relay their messages. They may guide hummingbirds to hum to validate their spiritual presence and to send us signs and reminders to follow our joy, stand in the light, and stay present in the moment. Your loved ones in Heaven may choose a hummingbird to enter your space as validation and assurance that they are well and their soul lives on.”

Source

I haven’t written much about my grandmother on this blog other than sharing her waffle recipe. 

Her full name was Ella Lucille, but she was more commonly known as Lucille or “Ceil” to some.

She enjoyed the Chicago Cubs, crossword puzzles, and spending time with her grandchildren in her later years.

She was a fantastic cook; she adored her friends; and she and her daughter (my mother) were the best of friends.

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She did not marry until she was in her late twenties, which was unheard of at the time. She didn’t want to be tied down at such a young age. She was a social butterfly with a large number of female and male friends. My grandmother was a trailblazer.

The man she married was the ideal match for my strong-willed grandmother. He was caring, kind, and hardworking. After getting married, they moved to a farm and worked together to keep it running.

After many years of failed attempts to conceive, my grandmother assumed she was entering menopause when she learned she was pregnant. When my mother, Sara, was born, my grandmother was nearly 42 years old and my grandfather was 54 years old.

A late-life baby was risky in those days, so when my mother was born, my grandmother told her sister Mary, “I hope I live to see her graduate high school.”

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I’m always saddened that, at such a joyous time, my grandmother was concerned that she might not live to see her daughter graduate from high school. My grandmother not only saw my mother graduate college. 

Unfortunately, my grandmother outlived my grandfather, but she did get to give her daughter away at her wedding.

She would see not only her first grandchild (me), but also her second grandchild three years later, when my brother was born.

She then set a new record by witnessing both of her grandchildren graduate from high school and marry. She then met Anna, my oldest daughter, who would name her “Great.”

The name fit.

We had no idea how amazing all that was.

For “Great” to live long enough to meet her great-granddaughter after having a child at the age of 41?  That is nothing short of miraculous. But our grandmother was no miracle; she was simply “Great.”

She seemed to be immortal.

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When Mike and I were trying for a second child in 2007, we decided on a name for our girl even before we were pregnant.

Ella, after my grandmother. 

Of course, I would have been just as thrilled to have a boy, and I loved our son’s name, William James, which is also a family name on both my and my husband’s sides.

Many months later, I was pregnant and entering the anxious stage of early pregnancy.

My grandmother’s health unexpectedly deteriorated while all of this was going on within me.

I remember a specific moment during my pregnancy when I was visiting my grandmother. I was dressed in a lavender maternity summer dress with a front tie. While looking up at me, my grandmother reached up from her bed and touched my growing belly.

 “I think it’s a girl.”

“Well, I hope you’re right because we’re naming her after you.”

“Oh, I love that.” 

“We are going to find out if it’s a boy or girl in September!“

“I can’t wait!”

That’s the last conversation I had with my grandma.

I was sitting on my couch with Anna after her soccer practice the night my mother called to tell me that my grandmother was dying. I was craving Quizno’s subs and assumed there was one nearby. So Anna and I got in the car and drove a few blocks away to get our subs, only to discover it had been converted into an H&R Block. We were so disappointed because we both really wanted one of their subs.

As we walked into the house, dejected and hungry, the phone rang.

It was my mother.

“Grandma is probably going to pass away overnight,” my mom said with deep sadness in her voice.

“Oh mom. I’m so sorry. What can I do?”

“Just keep praying.”

“Okay. I love you so much.”

“I love you too.”

I remember feeling helpless and so very sad.

In my grief and in my pregnancy foggy brain, I forgot to turn the ringer on the phone next to my bedside. I cried myself to sleep and slipped into a deep, hormonal sleep.

I wasn’t awake to answer the phone when my father called around four a.m. I didn’t receive the message until nearly three hours later, when I awoke at seven. 

My grandma died at four in the morning.

My mother feels guilty because she was not present at my grandmother’s bedside when she died. It was the only time she took a break. 

My mother provided excellent care for my grandmother throughout her senior years. She ought not to feel any guilt. I wish I could take it away from her. But I can’t make someone else feel less of it. That is not how any of it works.

I used to feel guilty for not being there for my mother after my grandmother died, but I don’t anymore. I was seven months pregnant, had a seven-year-old, and my husband worked long hours. I was trapped in an unforgiving life at the time. I’d do it again if I could, but that’s not how any of it works.

My brother went down alone to be with my parents the day my grandma died. My mom has said it was so healing to have him there. My dad, mom and brother crying, reminiscing, laughing about good times, and drinking a shot of whiskey in honor of grandma. It made me so incredibly happy that they had those moments together.

I’m so thankful that my brother stepped in during that time.

That’s the beauty of having a sibling.

 

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My mother noticed movement outside the window as they drank the whiskey shot in the kitchen. They turned around to see a hummingbird peering into the house. My mother didn’t have a hummingbird feeder on her porch, where the bird was perched. So there was nothing outside attracting it to the window.

My mother has always loved hummingbirds, but no matter how hard she tried over the years with feeders and sugar water, no hummingbirds were ever drawn to her feeders. But the first time a hummingbird visited my mother was on the day my grandmother died.

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“Your loved ones in Heaven may choose a hummingbird to enter your space as validation and assurance that they are well and their soul lives on.”

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I wore my grandmother’s old farmhouse apron over my growing pregnant belly on the day she died. It was a beautiful late-July day, sunny and cool. I recall it feeling like a perfect autumn day. I stumbled around the house trying to be a mom to Anna, babysitting for a friend’s child, and just muddle through the day.

Rebecca, a friend of mine, came over with her daughter to comfort us and bring us McDonalds for lunch. We sat on my couch by the front window, talking about my grandmother, while the kids played. “Oh grandma, where did you go?” I kept saying all day.

We looked out onto the lawn at one point, and there were birds all over it. This wasn’t unusual because we have bird feeders and a birdbath, but it was the number of birds on our lawn and the frequency with which they appeared that was unusual. They spent the entire day on our lawn. From early morning until late at night. The front yard was overflowing with birds.

My grandmother used to sing a song to the birds in her little country kitchen when the windows were open when I was a child. Nothing significant, just humming and making up little songs as she went. When she heard “Jenny Wren” sing, she used to say things like:

Good Morning, Jenny Wren. Are you singing to me, Jenny? What a pretty voice you have! 

I used to look up to my “Nanny” as a child. I loved going to her magical country home, surrounded by corn stalks and dirt roads. I can smell the bacon frying in the cast-iron skillet. I can taste the corn flakes and whole milk. I can see her working at her sink with the window above it, the breeze coming in through the window. My grandmother is talking with Jenny as she prepares my breakfast.

When grandmothers sing to the birds and the birds answer? That stuff is truly magical. Grandma Magic.

Birds have always reminded me of my grandmother. So when the birds appeared on my lawn on the day my grandmother died, it felt comforting.

During one of our phone calls the week she died, my mother told me about her hummingbird visit, and I told her about mine.

We’d each had a beautiful visitor.

 

 

On September 11th, 2007, I had an appointment to find out the gender of our baby. I wasn’t surprised when they said, “It’s a girl!” We’d already been told. It was as if Grandma had one foot in Heaven’s door and was giving us a sneak peek.

I felt my grandmother in the room with us four months later, on the day Ella was born. I imagine Grandma Ella was there, whispering last-minute advice for life on Earth into her ear.

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Our Ella is an old soul.

She truly lives up to her name. My grandmother would have adored her, and vice versa.

I walked into Ella’s room when she was a toddler and heard her talking. I mistook her for talking to her dolls. ‘I’m talking to Grandma Ella and Grandpa Albert, Mommy!” she said.

I’d never told her my grandfather’s name before.

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My other grandparents all died before I was born or when I was very young. My grandmother was the only grandparent I had known. That, I believe, is why she lived to be 102. So she could experience the lives of four grandparents.

She left a gaping hole in our hearts. I miss her every day. 

My mother is constantly visited by hummingbirds. They visit her back porch feeders on a daily basis. She prepares a sugar water potion and keeps it in the refrigerator so she can tend to her feeder and ensure the hummingbirds always have something to eat.

The sound of birdsong soothes me, especially in the morning. They will always remind me of where I came from. In a small white house, sitting at the kitchen counter with my “Nanny” while she prepares my breakfast and talks to Jenny Wren. Bacon on the stove and a bowl of cornflakes in front of me.

Nanny, why does Jenny Wren always sound so happy?

Because she’s free, sweetheart. Because she’s free.