“If I knew that the world ended tomorrow, I would plant an apple tree today.” -Martin Luther
This is the quote that the reverend shared last Saturday at my grandmother’s memorial. He said it reminds him of my grandmother.
I’ve been thinking about this quote, thinking about what it means to know the world is ending and to stay committed to life, to stewardship, to caring for living beings and making efforts to provide sustenance. All in the face of knowledge that it’s about to end.
If I knew that the world ended tomorrow…
What does it mean to still plant a seed or a sapling? Something that will not bear fruit today?
Is that in service of some unlikely, far-off hope that maybe it won’t end after all? Or is it maybe a commitment to life as it exists at every stage, in every moment?
I only saw my grandmother once during the last five years of her life.
You know, I was named after her, and she was by far my most beloved family member when I was little. But over the years, a lot of family things happened that never got acknowledged. A wall formed, made of all the things we couldn’t speak out loud.
When I was seventeen and went to live with her and my grandfather, I’d hoped maybe we would be able to finally open up and develop an honest relationship. Life had different plans for us, though. When my grandfather died the week after my eighteenth birthday, rather than bring us together, it drove me and my grandmother farther apart. I moved out a couple months later, again hoping that some distance would allow us to find some closure and healing. But it became clear that something really big had shattered. I couldn’t just go on as though nothing had happened, but I also no longer trusted in our ability to put the pieces back together.
Although I was never able to trust her enough to let her back into my life, she never gave up on me. I knew there was a place for me in her life, if I wanted it. Once every year or two, she would try to find a way to reach out to me. I only ever responded twice.
It would’ve been nice if we could’ve worked things out during her lifetime, but I just wasn’t ready. The time I spent away from my grandmother was necessary for me to heal. And I didn’t just heal for me, I healed for her, too. In a way I’m grateful that the pandemic delayed her memorial by two years, because it took me all those years—from age eighteen until two years after she died—to finally be ready to face her again. To gather with my family and send her off in a good way.
At the memorial, the reverend told some sweet stories from my grandmother’s last few weeks of life, which were also the first few weeks of the pandemic. As an 89-year-old woman, she learned how to call in by telephone to a zoom meeting so she could attend virtual coffee hour with her congregation. The reverend also shared something I hadn’t known about her death:
On April 28th, 2020, my grandmother died. She was working in her garden at the time.
I heard so many stories about my grandmother on Saturday that brought her to life in new ways and showed me the generous, loving person she was to so many. I was separated from her for so long that her physical death didn’t feel like it changed things much between us. Two years after her death, I almost feel like I’m developing a relationship with her for the first time.
Does that sound sad? Because it’s not, really. I’m filled with wonder. I am learning so many fascinating things about this complicated woman whose name I hold, the layers of her unfolding through the sharing of memories. Each new story lights up something within me, like my mitochondria are remembering her. There is a picture forming, slowly. But I know that, no matter how many of the shattered pieces come together, there will always be a mystery between me and my grandmother.
“If I knew that the world ended tomorrow, I would plant an apple tree today.”
That quote is still a mystery to me, too. Maybe that’s part of why I like it. When I find in moments that I want to give up because things feel too bleak, I think I’ll remember that quote. I’ll remember about my grandmother, who was tending to her garden in the moment her heart gave out. I’ll wonder what it takes to keep committing to life every single day, regardless of all else. Maybe wondering itself is what it takes—the ability to wonder is the ability to acknowledge that reality is never just what you can see in front of you. There is always mystery beyond.
