My first memories of her are fuzzy, but I remember that she had the oldest, creepiest house, and I was scared to go up the dark staircase that led to the three bedrooms in which twelve kids had slept.
She had one, seriously long, dining room table, and we’d all crowd around it for dinner. When the crowd had reached its overloaded max, everyone else would spill over to the couches, the rocking chair, the tiny kitchen table…anywhere they could sit.
It was family bonding at its absolute closest.
Literally.
I also remember she always, always…ALWAYS kissed me goodbye.
As a little kid, I wondered why but have come to appreciate that more now.
I didn’t always love going to her house.
Because along with grandma came scores of aunts and uncles and cousins with whom I didn’t mesh. Never have, but we won’t go there today.
But I always knew she loved me.
And I haven’t ever told her that she is one of my heroes.
Left a single mom of twelve at far too young an age, she went back to school, got her nursing degree, and provided for
her family. She volunteered at her church and went on mission trips almost every summer to the Appalachian Mountains
to help underprivileged families.
She gave everything she had to give…and I never saw her ask for anything
for herself.
And I’ve always admired her for that…and, in a way, hoped I’d grow up to be even half as strong a woman as she has always been.
My grandma turned 91 years old this past September, and today she is lying in a hospital bed, having suffered a heart attack overnight. She is hanging in there, fighting this battle just like any other…with strength and grace. And a lot of stubbornness, too, I’m sure.
Regardless of when I have to say goodbye to her…tomorrow or ten years from now, I’m so thankful that I can take the time to remember
the impact my Grandma A has had on my life.
I’d appreciate your prayers for her, too. Thanks, friends…love you all.
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