Called Home: When 95 Years Still Doesn't Feel Like Enough

This morning, my Lita (grandmother) was called home to Heaven.

She was 95 years old.

Ninety-five years.

When I say that out loud, I know what a gift that is. Ninety-five years of life. Ninety-five years of memories. Ninety-five years of watching the world change, watching her family grow, loving generations of children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.

There is so much to be grateful for.

But today, if I’m being truthful, 95 years still doesn’t feel like enough.

Because I think when you love someone, you always want one more.

One more conversation.

One more hug.

One more story you’ve probably heard a hundred times but would give anything to hear again.

One more chance to say, I love you.

One more moment where they are still here.

And today, my heart is trying to hold two things at the same time: grief and gratitude.

I am grieving because my grandma is gone.

But I am grateful because she was here.

And what a gift it was that God gave us 95 years with her.

This Morning, Heaven Became a Little More Personal

There is something strange about losing someone you love when you believe in Heaven.

You know where they are.

You believe the promises of God.

You know this life was never meant to be the end of the story.

And yet... it still hurts.

Faith does not make us immune to grief.

Jesus Himself wept.

And I find so much comfort in that.

John 11:35 contains two of the shortest and perhaps most comforting words in Scripture:

“Jesus wept.”

Jesus knew resurrection was coming. He knew Lazarus would live again. He knew exactly how the story would end.

And still, He wept.

That tells me there is room in our faith for tears.

There is room to know Heaven is real and still wish someone were here.

There is room to trust God and still feel completely heartbroken.

There is room for gratitude and grief to sit beside each other.

So today, I am letting them.

Ninety-Five Years of God's Faithfulness

When someone lives 95 years, you cannot help but think about everything those years held.

There were beautiful seasons.

There were probably seasons she never thought she would survive.

There were prayers answered the way she hoped.

And I’m sure there were prayers answered in ways she never understood on this side of Heaven.

There were people she loved.

People she lost.

Moments that made her laugh.

Moments that broke her heart.

There were ordinary days that probably didn't seem important at the time but became part of a life that now feels incredibly precious.

And through every single one of those years, God was there.

Through every high.

Every low.

Every celebration.

Every heartbreak.

Every ordinary Tuesday nobody thought they would someday miss.

God was there.

That may be what is hitting me the hardest tonight.

The God who was faithful to my grandmother through 95 years of life was faithful to her all the way to the end.

He didn't carry her for 94 years and stop.

He didn't carry her for 95 years and then leave her when she needed Him most.

He carried her all the way home.

Called Home

We use that phrase a lot when someone passes away.

They were called home.

But today those words feel different.

Because home means belonging.

Home means you have arrived where you were meant to be.

Home means the journey is over.

No more pain.

No more aging.

No more tired body.

No more goodbyes.

No more death.

Revelation 21:4 says:

“He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain.”

And today, I am holding onto that promise a little tighter.

Because while there are tears here, I believe there was rejoicing there.

While our hearts are breaking here, I believe my Lita is finally home.

And maybe that is the hardest and most beautiful part of faith—knowing that what feels like such a painful goodbye to us is not a goodbye at all.

It is until we see you again.

There is so much more I could say about my Lita.

There are 95 years worth of stories, an incredible life that deserves more than a few paragraphs written through tears on the day we lost her. 

And one day, I will write about those things.

I will write about the woman she was.

I will write about the lessons she taught us, some with her words and so many simply by the way she lived.

I will write about the memories that make us laugh, the things about her that I never want us to forget, and the pieces of her that I know will continue living through our family for generations.

And most importantly, I will write about her love for Jesus.

Because if there is one thing I want people to know about my Lita, it is that her story did not end this morning.

The Jesus she loved throughout her life is the Jesus she is with now.

But that story is for another day.

Today, I am just her granddaughter.

Today, I don't need to find all the right words.

Today, I am allowed to miss her.

I am allowed to cry.

I am allowed to wish that 95 years could somehow have been 96.

And at the same time, I can whisper, “Thank You, Jesus.”

Thank You for 95 years.

Thank You for every memory.

Thank You for every lesson.

Thank You for every hug, every laugh, every story, and every piece of her that she left behind in us.

Thank You for letting her be our Lita.

And thank You for the promise that this isn't the end.

So today, with a heart that is both incredibly grateful and completely broken, I will hold onto what I know:

The same God who held my Lita for 95 years is holding her now.

She finished her journey here.

She made it home.

And one day, because of Jesus, we will see her again.

Until then, Lita, we will carry your love with us.

I love you.

Until we meet again. 🤍

And 95 years will never feel like enough.

Still trusting. Still holding onto Jesus. Even through the tears.

With love, faith, and a grateful heart,

 Raquel 🤍

Holy Hustle with Raquel