My grandma's apartment is full of treasures.
We popped in at her place last week, piled the whole family in the Odyssey and made that ninety minute drive that we don't attempt nearly often enough. We spent the afternoon with her, and I walked away thinking how good, how very good she is at loving us.
She loved us with dips of ice cream in pointy cones, with homemade sugar cookies. With helping Elle take down dozens of tiny porcelain trinkets--roosters, angels, puppies--from their shadowboxes and line them up on the carpet in play as if they weren't the least bit breakable. With sifting through the contents of her cedar chest with me: old handkerchiefs, bitsy saddle shoes in cream and brown, Grandpa's baby blanket, my mum's dainty first dress and slip, a stack of quilts she'd hand-stitched over the years.
With letting me leave the house with one of those precious quilts, pieced together from her childhood dresses, each stitch tiny and sure.
With a trove of stories: burrowing in the church during a tornado, and the hard trek back to the farmhouse; my great-grandpa bringing home chicken feed in matching sacks so the girls could sew dresses; how she and her sister had two school-dresses apiece, and wore one for three days and the other for two, and never minded.
So much in her life has changed, has been lost, or is being slowly pulled from her. And yet she's beautiful and astoundingly strong in ways I'm just beginning to realize.
Grandma, you render my life with richness and such sweet grace.
The Bethlehem Walk. And Advent.
6 hours ago