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
