a tribute to my grandmother

A Tribute to my Grandmother

It was Happy Hour when my grandmother died, that golden hour at week’s end when one shrugs away the burdens of life and orders themselves a tall one. To me it seems fitting that she drew her last breath then, under the long shadows cast by a spectacular late autumn sun.

Life was Happy Hour for my grandmother. Sleep in, stay up late. Those minor life annoyances? Put on your rose-colored glasses and all will be fine. Shake up a martini—heck, make it a double. Pack up the kids and head to the beach—I mean, why go to school when the sun is shining and waves are curling? C’mon—this is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it!

My grandmother greeted life with an effortless smile and open arms to gently wrap you up. She laughed with ease, especially at the joke between just you and her. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity, inviting you into a conversation that revealed new surprises about the world around us. Life was for learning—there was nothing sweeter.

Except for that voice. Oh, that VOICE! From the most elementary hymns belted out on any given Sunday to the most practiced oratorios delivered perfectly in a European cathedral, her voice joyously filled the hollow and empty spaces. Standing just shy of 5 feet, her singing commanded the attention of a giant. How I wish I could have seen her in the grand concert halls of L.A. or Germany, standing solo on a stage before hundreds. But I did see her in the humble spaces of everyday Lutheran churches—and that was enough.

I don’t think words can express how much my grandmother meant to me. But words aren’t needed. If you met her, she meant that much to you too.

For a woman like my grandmother, leaving this world at Happy Hour makes sense. It is when she saw again her father and mother, her brother and sister, her old friends. It is when she met her Savior. Can you imagine a happier hour? I cannot.

--JJM