Two Days Before Grandmother Departed

The room in Hue was so quiet that one could hear every breath. Pale light from the window fell upon the edge of the bed, where an elderly woman lay after days of battling a brain tumor. Her family sat around her, their eyes never leaving her face, which bore the deep marks of age. The atmosphere was heavy with sorrow, yet she remained the most lucid person in the room.

Her illness had gradually weakened her body. The family understood that time was running out, but no one knew exactly when the parting would come. During those days, everyone cared for her while living in anxious uncertainty. She alone did not panic. A lifetime of gentle, humble, and devout practice seemed to have kept her mind peaceful even as her body grew weary.

She was not born into great wealth, nor did she have the means to perform large acts of merit. She simply fulfilled her duties as a sincere Buddhist devotee. During the rainy season retreat for monks, she maintained a strict vegetarian diet for those months. Every day, she performed three hundred prostrations before the Buddha. These practices were not loud or boastful; they were repeated steadily through the years, like a quiet river flowing toward the sea.

Then one day, she looked at her loved ones beside the bed and spoke slowly.

"Grandmother will leave in two days."

The whole family froze. Someone leaned close, thinking she was too tired and had misspoken.

"Where are you going, Grandmother? Please rest. We are all here with you."

She remained clear-headed, her gaze calm.

"In two days, Grandmother will depart."

This short sentence tightened everyone’s hearts. No one wanted to believe it, yet her voice held no trace of delirium. Her relatives took hold of her thin hand, trying to remain composed.

"Do not worry, Grandmother. Let us take care of everything. Please try to rest well."

She did not argue further. She simply lay still, her breathing slow, her expression free from fear. It was this very composure that made the family even more restless. Two days suddenly became a period that felt both too short and agonizingly long. Every sound in the room startled them, and each time she closed her eyes for a moment longer than usual, everyone held their breath.

News of her worsening condition reached her grandchild, who had taken monastic vows and was staying in Nghe An. He immediately asked his teacher for permission.

"Venerable Master, my grandmother has a brain tumor and is nearing death. Please allow me to go to Hue to see her before she passes."

His teacher granted him permission. The journey from Nghe An to Hue was long, but the monk’s heart burned hotter than the wheels turning on the road. He only hoped to arrive in time to see his grandmother one last time and be by her side during this crucial moment.

Meanwhile, in the house in Hue, the two days she had predicted were slipping away. Her family sat close by, unwilling to leave. Someone asked softly,

"Do you need anything, Grandmother?"

She replied in a weak but clear voice.

"I do not need anything."

"Are you in much pain?"

"I am fully aware. Do not worry, children."

Her words were gentle, yet they brought tears to the eyes of those around her. No one could truly feel at ease facing such a separation, but they understood she was trying to ease their fear. Amidst severe illness, she maintained an astonishing clarity and peace.

Exactly two days after her prediction, her breathing grew faint. There was no panic, no confused speech. She passed away in full awareness, surrounded by the embrace of her family. The statement "In two days, Grandmother will depart" now left everyone in a state of profound grief and silent reflection.

When the monk arrived in Hue from Nghe An, his grandmother had already passed half an hour earlier. Those thirty brief minutes became an insurmountable distance. He entered the house, saw his grandmother lying peacefully, and clenched his fists. All the urgency of his journey collapsed into choked sobs.

After composing himself to perform the funeral rites, he reported back to his teacher.

"Venerable Master, I arrived just half an hour after she had passed. She predicted two days, and exactly two days later, she departed."

Upon hearing this, the teacher responded with deep emotion.

"Your grandmother must have lived a life of great virtue to achieve such a death."

The monk replied,

"Yes, Venerable Master. My grandmother was a disciple of a temple in Hue. She could not maintain vegetarianism year-round, but she strictly ate vegetarian food during the monks’ retreat season. Every single day, she performed three hundred prostrations to the Buddha."

He added that her family was not wealthy, so she could not perform many large acts of merit. What stood out most in her life was her sincerity, humility, gentleness, and reverence for the Dharma. She silently fulfilled her duties, planting small but steadfast seeds of goodness day after day.

Hearing this story, the teacher was deeply moved. Her conscious passing was not the result of any display of merit. It was like sweet fruit ripened from countless quiet good deeds: months of vegetarian discipline, daily bows to the Buddha, kind treatment of others, and unwavering faith.

After the funeral, her image remained vivid in the memories of her descendants. They remembered her prediction, her calm demeanor on her sickbed, and a life where she never claimed to have done anything extraordinary. Her death taught those left behind that spiritual practice does not necessarily begin with lofty achievements. One only needs to live gently, maintain reverence for the teachings, and persistently do good. Each passing day can become a peaceful preparation for the final journey.

The Meaning of This Story

A life of kindness, humility, devotion, and persistent practice can generate profound blessings. True value lies not in the size of our actions, but in the sincerity of our heart and the consistency of our practice throughout life.

Compiled from a dharma talk by Most Venerable Thich Chan Quang