I have told this story several times in the past couple of months, and I keep feeling prompted to tell it again, so I figger I might as well just make it public.

My grandmother--my mother's mother--was my childhood angel. She was the one stable influence in a tumultuous childhood, and the main reason that I grew up with any self-esteem at all. She instilled in me a sense of my own worth, just by loving me--and showing it.

As she aged, her hair went completely white, and her demeanor became even more and more gentle and kind. At 78, after a slip on the kitchen linoleum while chasing a great grand toddler, she was just beginning to slow down--but not much. I was twenty, with a month-old baby.

When my sister called to tell me that Grandma had passed away, I was stunned, but not wholly surprised. My silent tears came quickly, and I asked, "How? Did she die in her sleep?"

"No...." came the hesitant reply. "She was walking with a friend, across the cul-de-sac of her apartment complex, and....well.... a garbage truck backed over her."

At this, I became unhinged.

My sweet, kind, gentle grandmother had died a horrible, violent death. She had been walking, with her friend--elbows linked--toward her car in the parking lot. The truck did not have a back-up beeper signal, nor was there an outside attendant keeping watch. My grandmother's friend was pulled to the ground, and received abrasions to her face and arms, skinned and bruised knees and elbows and, of course, was seriously shaken up. But she was treated and released.

My grandmother had been run over by both the back and the front sets of double wheels on the driver's side of the vehicle. He did not know he had hit her until he saw her on the ground. She was killed instantly, and her body was crushed to the point that an open-casket service was impossible.

This is a horrible story, I know, but there is a reason I am telling it. Stay with me.

I was completely beside myself, and unable to settle. I do not remember the rest of the phone call with my sister. I do not remember getting off the phone. I remember the utter astonishment on my then-husband's face as I tried to choke out the circumstances of my grandmother's passing.

He held me while I sobbed, and rocked, and hid my face in my hands, and wailed. I could not contain myself. The idea that this sweet old lady's life could end in such a ghastly manner was incomprehensible to me. After a while, he held me at arm's length, looked me in the eyes, and said, "Ellen! Ellen, it's okay. Your grandma is up in heaven right now telling her death story the way you tell birth stories with your friends. She is saying, 'Ha! You died in your sleep? How boring! I got run over--by a garbage truck!' She is fine! She is fine."

And this completely transformed the moment for me. I chuckled through my sobs. I envisioned her with her friends comparing notes. It made me smile to think about it. I was still deeply grieved, of course. Still horrified, sure. But I could get a handle on it. I could settle. I could reframe from an eternal perspective.

What I make up about life and death has not changed much since my early teens. My then-husbands words reminded me of what I already knew then, what I still think I know now.

I make up that this life is one of many--a blip on the screen of our eternal existence. I imagine each of these lives as a sort of "clinical rotation," where we get empirical wisdom to go with the intellectual education we are constantly seeking for the growth of our souls. We gain character, understanding, and compassion. And, more important, these adventures can do no lasting harm to our eternal essence.

I think of these lives, and deaths, like roller coaster rides at Six Flags. We scream, alternately cling and flail, and close our eyes, or raise our hands in the air and laugh, while they are happening. Then we get off, put our feet on solid ground, eat a funnel cake, compare notes with our companions, and decide what ride to do next.

I worked as a midwife when my family was younger, and I imagine the energy around a death--on the other side of the veil--is much like the energy of a birth here. The support around the pain, the tedious watching and waiting, the fear of the unknown, the excited anticipation as the moment approaches.

I imagine we burst through to the other side, into the arms of our eagerly waiting companions, saying, "WHOA!! Did you SEE that? That was awesome!"

"You got to die of cancer? Oh, man! What was that like? Were you super scared?"

"I got paralyzed from the waist down! You can not imagine how hard that is! I learned SO much."

"I lived to 98 and died in my sleep. Those last fifteen years were exquisitely lonely. Oh! And if you do that one, exercise so your bones stay strong."

Maybe we loved it, and want to go back and do it again. Maybe we want a do-over, because of some intricate details we think we may have missed. Maybe once was enough, and we don't even make it to the trash can before we lose our funnel cake at our companions' feet.

But it's all part of the field trip. And its all good, and exciting, and new. And the end result is always joy.

Always.

At least, that's what I make up about that.