A tribute to my Grandmother
A tribute to my Grandmother
A bold and merry beacon in a dark world
In the recent film Young Woman and the Sea, Trudy Ederle is in the midst of an attempt to become the first woman to swim the English Channel. Nearing the end of her journey, with just a few miles to go, she is disoriented and quite alone in the dark. Exhausted and freezing, she struggles and turns in the water, searching for a sign to lead her in the right direction. She bobs under briefly; our hearts beat audibly and our breath comes a little quicker.
Then, far in the distance, on the cliffs of Dover, we see it: dozens of people are gathered, adding wood to vast bonfires which leap and dance high into the air. The light pierces the gloomy dark of the night, and is visible for miles. Just as Trudy is about to succumb to the frigid water, she suddenly spies the flicker of yellow flames and immediately swims towards the light. This signal–this beacon of direction and hope–guides her through the water to safety.
Today–two weeks after the passing of my grandmother at 97– I remember her as a beacon of light for my family in an ever-darkening world. I hope that her joyful life can also inspire you.
Born in 1927, my grandmother raised five children while also cultivating many skills and pursuing her many interests. She was a prolific seamstress, and some of the last things she sewed were quilts for each of her great-granddaughters. She baked legendary brown buns with freshly milled sweet-smelling wheat–and her basement deep freeze was filled with bags of rolls and preserved food for a rainy day, or a spontaneous dinner for 30.
My grandmother’s summer garden was abundant. Corn, tall and waving in dusk breezes produced sweet, deep, yellow ears. The yard was bordered with raspberry bushes, unruly and laden with ruby jewels. We ate those berries by the bowl, thick, cold cream poured over top and sprinkled with white sugar.
She hosted family meals in that beautiful backyard –lunches with dozens of cousins tromping in and out of the house all afternoon, pounding out tunes on the keyboard piano, playing basketball and bocce, arguing and laughing and eating all the good food–together. Amazingly, despite all the noise, and all the chaos, and all the humanity, my grandmother was always relaxed. That gives me hope. She knew that far more important than a pristine, quiet house, was an abundance of life and all the inconveniences that accompany a life lived with a lot of imperfect family members.
When I reminisce about my grandma, I think that more than the quilts she sewed, more than the raspberries she grew or the beautiful flowers she planted and cared for, more than the letters she wrote to me, the thing I remember most about my grandmother is her laugh.
As a child, I loved her musical, joyful laugh, and I always felt happy with my grandma. My grandpa had a very dry and witty sense of humor, so it seemed to me that she was always laughing. When I was young, I could be forgiven for thinking that she laughed easily because of how happy and wonderful her life was. I had a happy childhood, and happy children assume that everyone else is (more or less) happy, too. But my grandmother was 57 when I was born. None of us reach our 50s without suffering heartache, difficulty, and tragedy, and she was no exception.
Her childhood was encompassed by the Great Depression, and in her teen years she experienced the second World War. Her oldest brother died at 18. In retrospect, her ability to laugh often is even more amazing to me, because while I may not have known at the time what challenges she was facing, she was, as all of us are, living through difficulty and hardship. I realize now that she was facing those challenges with hope, and even joy, because of her faith in Christ.
She didn’t laugh because her life was perfect. She laughed because she knew in whom she could put her trust. The best sermons are preached without ever saying a word, and she gave her most powerful lessons to me through her laugh.
I do not know if my grandmother set out to influence me, and my cousins, and her great-grandchildren in ways that they cannot even be aware of just yet. Did she know that her simple, ordinary, mundane life would someday be extraordinary to so much of her posterity? Did she know that her love of serving people joyfully, and gardening with hope, and cultivating relationships, would always remind us of her, and remind me to not be conformed to this world, but to seek what is virtuous and lovely?
Whether she knew or not doesn’t matter. But from where I stand, I can see her clearly–like a lighthouse standing firm on the rocks–and her life teaches me that no matter how small or insignificant our lives may seem to us now, they have the potential to be a beacon to our posterity for generations to come.
In 50 years, when I am nearing 90, what will my own granddaughters remember about me? Will they remember me as grumpy, selfish, and easily angered? Or will they remember me as someone like my grandmother, who laughed with a merry heart, without fear of the future, remembering the great things the Lord hath done for me and my family.1
May we burn brightly like a beacon in the dark for those who need guidance to safety.
May we laugh without fear of the future with the merriest of hearts.
May our best sermons be preached without a word, but with every action, every day of our lives.
She that is of a merry heart hath a continual feast.
-Proverbs 15:15
Keep seeking the virtuous and the lovely,
Shannon
Psalm 126:2
Yes, such a heartfelt tribute that allowed me to picture her and imagine knowing her. Thank you for sharing and leading me to want to be like her! Be relaxed and move through stressful times with perspective. May we all strive for a merry heart.
Lovely.