Memories of Grandma on Her 90th Birthday

Today would have been her 90th birthday. Ninety, long and prosperous years she would have been here. A very long life lived indeed and yet it still feels like she was taken too soon.

Its weird how grief slams into you sometimes. A friend of mine recently grieving the passing of her husband said, “the milestones are easy, birthdays, holidays and anniversaries. It’s the landmines that blow you away.”

You never see them coming.

Like the day I realized my grandma’s name would never be on the list for my wedding or baby shower. How I can’t call her and ask her for the recipe for her chicken and noodles because I just can’t get it right. Mornings spent crying quietly in my office, overwhelmed by life and wishing I could stop by her house and tell her how much my heart hurts.

I would find her in the kitchen, just like I always did. At the stove, wooden spoon in hand, making food for her people. She would have gotten up early that morning, before the sunrise no doubt, and put on a pot of coffee. She’d start the biscuits and brown the bacon. She’d set out a plate for my grandpa. They would eat together and read the paper and talk about the day’s events. At some point he would head to work in the same denim pants and pearl snap workshirt. A pencil in his pocket. She would go about her sewing. Her needlepoint, her knitting and her crochet. She was always working on something in her shop, draperies, blankets, quilts and more. Then she would go back to the kitchen. She’d maybe make a few pies for the bake sale on Sunday or cookies for a neighbor. She scan her favorite magazines and clip a new recipe. A new crochet pattern. A blanket for a new baby. She would decide on a color and head to the store for yarn. She would do crosswords and sudoku. Another cup of coffee. She’d make lunch and then supper and go to bed tired ready to do it all again the next day.

Of course, she and my grandpa traveled and spent time doing leisurely things with family and friends, but sure enough as the sun rose and set, they were always doing what they always did. That’s struck me differently as age has has weathered my soul; how much my grandma was like Jesus.

I knew my grandparents loved the Lord. I was raised in the church pew right next to the both of them. We sang songs out of hymnals and had revivals. They tithed and they gave abundantly so that people could know Jesus. But, the thing I remember most about my grandma was not that she could recite scripture or that she was full of theological knowledge. She never recalled a recent sermon to me. I honestly rarely ever saw her reading her Bible, even though I know she did.

She just used her gifts. She served.

She supported every endeavor, every contest, school event, pageant, dance recital, theatre show and more. Her children and grandchildren were the apple of her eye. The loves of her life and everyone knew it. She never knew a stranger and she always kept her word.

Just like the Father’s love for me. Consistent and personal. Unwavering and unconditional.

She poured her heart out for her people with her own two hands. She took the time to sit and listen and see people. She prayed for me, no doubt, harder than I have ever prayed for myself because Lord knows I went wayward a time or two. She never closed her door. There was always an invitation to sit and eat and share.

Even without asking, I knew I was welcome anytime. She would see me coming up the driveway from the kitchen window and open the garage.

And I would find her in the kitchen, just like I always did.