My suitcase wasn’t even unpacked from my maternal grandmother’s funeral when I got the call about my dad’s mom: “Grandma has been in bed all week. We’re driving down tomorrow to say goodbye.”
I do realize the extravagance of this gift I’ve been given, having grandparents I’ve known into adulthood. I feel almost guilty grieving these losses, like someone in Hawaii complaining about the winter.
And yet grief is so rarely a rational animal. There is little comfort in comparing wounds, no balm in “at-leasting” them.At least I had her so long. At least she went peacefully. At least she’s no longer suffering. It may be true, but it does little to erase the loss.
Grandma celebrated her 102nd birthday this summer, but her mind remained as bright as ever. Whenever I visited, I perused the books on her end table: mysteries, historical fiction, chunky nonfiction titles. As I listened to her delineate the tactical strategies from her recent World War II read, I found myself shaking my head, hoping to be as well read when I grow up.
Books are, after all, how she and I became friends. I knew her as my grandma my whole life, of course, but with twelve children and a gaggle of grandchildren, she always had a lot of voices clamoring for her attention.
One summer when I was in junior high, we went to her and Grandpa’s condo to swim, and she noticed the copy of Anne of Green Gables under my arm. I told her about Anne, the book’s spunky red-haired heroine. Before long, I was passing along the entire series to her (and eventually to Grandpa too) when I finished each one. As we had our own informal book club over the course of eight books, I realized how much of Anne I saw in my grandma: both were gingers who had lost parents young and had come out resilient (and a little fiery) on the other side. Both were lovers of literature who got an education at a time when not many women did. Both took a legacy of loss and wrote a redemptive story for the generations after them.
Grandma’s story could have been a book itself. I think about the vignettes I’ve heard over the years—how she met Grandpa in college just before the war, how she waited and prayed for his return after he enlisted, how he mailed her a parachute so she could use the silk for her wedding dress, how they got married on a Tuesday right before Lent (so they wouldn’t have to wait until after Easter), how she and Grandpa had a dozen kids in 14 years, how she lived independently (and read independently) until past the century mark.
She didn’t see herself as a heroine, but then again, aren’t all the real heroes the ones who don’t realize it? “Oh, honey,” she’d tell me, “I just did what I had to do.” On every page, her life was marked by humility and grit.
But perhaps more than anything, she didn’t see herself as heroic because she knew she was part of a larger story. And she knew the Author who was writing it:
You saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was recorded in your book. Psalm 139:16
Grandma, your final chapter is over here on earth. But your story on the other side is just beginning. Only this time you get to read the book before I do.
You were never one to spoil an ending, but I’m pretty sure the story you’re living now in is the grandest one of all. In this story, there’s a happily ever after, but no “the end.”
I don’t know exactly what the literary scene looks like in heaven. But I’m putting in a special request to be in your book club just in case.
Hope . . . makes possible our ability to recognize that the world in which we find ourselves has a story; and if there’s a story, there’s a storyteller. Stanley Hauerwas
What I remember most about Grandma’s house is the way it smelled.
It smelled like pie and cookies and Christmas and memories and love.
Long before my family would begin the 2,000-mile trip across the country to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, Grandma would start preparing for us to come. Most of that work was done in a flour-dusted apron, with rolling pin in hand.
For weeks before we arrived, she rolled out pie crusts, baked bars, and stocked her five(!) freezers with all manner of chocolatey desserts, Scandinavian cookies, and cinnamon rolls (each tray wrapped with a rumpled sheet of thrice-used foil).
As soon as we stepped into her house, the number-one priority (after a round of hugs) was pie. No matter what time we arrived, even if we were bleary eyed, even if it was egad-o’clock in the morning, we would eat a slice of pie. Huckleberry pie, rhubarb pie, French apple pie—every bite made from scratch.
The next morning at Grandma’s house, my nose would wake up before the rest of me did. From my sleeping quarters with the cousins in the basement, I’d be welcomed into consciousness by the scent of homemade donuts.
Grandma wasn’t one to sit down for heart-to-heart conversations, and she didn’t have much time for lofty words or emotive speeches. She loved with her hands instead of her words.
I love you, she said with every mixer stroke. I love you, she said with every roll of her pie crust (including the leftover bits, which she’d sprinkle with sugar and cinnamon and give to us grandkids). I love you, she said as she preserved another jar of jam made from Grandpa’s fresh-grown raspberries. I love you, she said with every knead of cinnamon roll dough (which she unapologetically served with dinner and were not dessert).
***
I got the call about Grandma’s death on a sunny September morning. She was 96, and she hadn’t made cookies for some years now, so this wasn’t a surprise. But in that moment, decades of memories came flooding over me.
“What was your grandma like?” my boys ask me.
There are so many ways to answer that question. Do I tell them about the tenacious farm girl who loved to ride her horse, Dewey, instead of sew like her sister? Do I tell them about the brave young woman who left her parents’ farm in North Dakota to get a college degree in business at a time when most women were homemakers? Do I tell them about the young teacher who set off for a job in Montana, having never visited, because the people she’d met from there were nice? Do I tell them about the handsome chemistry teacher who saw her picture in the paper and volunteered to pick her up at the train station and how they were married for 66 years?
I open my mouth to respond, but none of the words taste right on my tongue.
“Come into the kitchen,” I say instead. “Let’s make a pie.”
We slice and mix and sprinkle and make a sugary mess before putting the pie in the oven. As the aroma of warm apples and cinnamon filters through the house, I whisper in their ears, “This is what Grandma’s love smells like.” And as we take a bite of buttery apples with strudel, I tell them, “This is what Grandma’s love tastes like.”
***
Don’t let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God, and trust also in me. There is more than enough room in my Father’s home. If this were not so, would I have told you that I am going to prepare a place for you? When everything is ready, I will come and get you, so that you will always be with me where I am. John 14:1-3
As I wash the pie tin (the one Grandma gave me), it occurs to me that Grandma is on the other side of the preparations now. The woman who prepared endlessly for meals and holidays and parties and visits from out-of-town grandchildren is now going to a place that has been prepared just for her. Her Savior has been at work, getting his home ready for her, stocking the heavenly freezer for her arrival.
I wouldn’t necessarily bank on this theology, but who knows? Maybe, just maybe, a slice of pie will be waiting for her when she gets there.
Did you know that sometimes people are actually saying “I love you,” even when like the words coming out of their mouths sound altogether different? It’s true. Case in point: Sometimes people try to form the word “love” and it comes out sounding like “donut.”
When I was a kid, we’d go to Washington State every summer to visit my grandparents. There were so many fun memories from those July days: picking raspberries in Grandpa’s garden, going waterskiing on the Columbia River, and playing endless games of shuffleboard in Grandma and Grandpa’s backyard.
But one of my favorite memories from those trips was waking up early to the heavenly smell of homemade donuts. Without fail, Grandma would get up before the crack of dawn so she could whip together the first batch. By the time everyone else woke up, the countertops were lined with doughy goodness: traditional circle donuts, donut holes, and donuts dusted with powdered sugar. By the time I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and ambled to the kitchen in all my pajamaed glory, Grandma had been on her feet for hours.
I’m not sure I could have articulated it then, but now I know that what she was saying with those donuts was “I love you.” If Gary Chapman ever adds a sixth love language to his classic book, I’m lobbying for it to be food. Because food is, without a doubt, the way Grandma communicates love.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve started to realize that love doesn’t have as narrow of a definition as I used to imagine. Maybe I’d watched one too many romantic comedies or Disney-fied fairy tales, but I used to have the notion that love was primarily a happily-ever-after sort of thing that’s found only on rare occasions. And I had the idea that if you loved someone, you probably had to make an eloquent speech about it.
But now I’m starting to realize that there is so much love all around, if only we can recognize it. And there are a lot of ways to express that love beyond the traditional “I love you.”
When your mom says, “Call me when you get home,” she’s really saying “I love you.”
When your dad says, “I can fix that for you,” he’s really saying “I love you.”
When your friend says, “Let’s get coffee,” she’s really saying “I love you.”
When God paints a sunrise for you just as you’re walking out the door, he’s really saying “I love you.”
And of course, when your grandma makes you donuts, she’s really saying “I love you.”
One of the greatest gifts of writing my memoir was getting to relive a chunk of my life and trace all the love that came in unexpected places. No, it didn’t come in the form of a husband and kids during that season of my life the way I’d planned. But even so, God was pouring out so much love onto me that it seeped out through every crack and crevice.
How often do we miss the love because it doesn’t come in the package we expect?
Today is National Donut Day, but I’d like to hereby proclaim it National Look-for-the-Love Day. So whatever form loves comes to you in today, whether via donuts or otherwise, I urge you to recognize it for what it is. Embrace the love, even when it comes in an unlikely package.
***
So what’s your story? When has love come to you in an unexpected way or from an unexpected source?
Share the love . . .
If you share this post, you will be eligible to win TWO Dunkin’ Donuts gift cards—one for you and one to share with someone you love.
I had the privilege of writing for Pick Your Portion recently. Here’s what I shared about my grandmother’s unexpected gift . . .
Last weekend the women in my family got together to celebrate the upcoming birth of my sister’s baby. We don’t know the name or the gender yet, and we don’t know this little one’s hair color or personality or special talents. But one thing is for certain: this baby is already incalculably loved.
We sat around the living room sipping raspberry punch long after the shower was over, telling stories about Meghan as a baby and retelling family lore—about sons and daughters, aunts and uncles, cousins and siblings. At one point I just sat there looking at all the beloved faces, trying to let the moment soak in. There were four generations represented in that room—my grandmother, my mom and a smattering of aunts, my sister, and the baby we were eager to meet.
The guests had been asked to bring a book they’d loved as children, and the selections were a delightful mix of classic and modern, serious and fanciful, playful and deep. Then Meghan opened the last gift, unobtrusively tucked in a small bag at the back of the pile. As soon as she revealed the contents, the room drew in a collective breath.
