When the house is quiet and I feel at peace, my thoughts drift towards the future: to a future life, future loves, future dreams. And yet, these thoughts of a time yet to come inevitably draw me to those individuals who have guided, shaped, and inspired me to become what I am today and also what I hope to be in the future. In particular, I think of you.

            I often marvel at the way you have lived your 85 years; few people could even attempt to fill your shoes. When my biological grandmother took her own life, my poor grandpa was left the heart-broken father of three little boys. The youngest of those boys was my dad, a baby hardly five months old; his brothers were little older. After her death, my grandpa spent three years alone changing diapers, kissing owies, and drying tears while juggling his duties as a hard-working farmer. His heart ached for his motherless boys.

            This is where you enter the story. Great-Aunt Inga told Grandpa: “I think I know just the lady for you.”  I wonder how you felt when you were invited to that pivotal 4^th of July picnic. Frightened? Timid? Uncomfortable? As you sat down on the grass to enjoy the summer evening, three little boys all vied with each other, each struggling to clamber onto your lap. One thing led to another: Grandpa asked you out to dinner, and a year later, you were engaged to be married.

            My romantic aspirations always consist of a suave, debonair Prince Charming who will sweep me off my feet and whisk me away to marital bliss. This wasn’t the case with you. It takes a very rare kind of person to step into the position you did; few people have the character, compassion, and courage needed to assume the role of wife, mother, and farmer all at once. I question whether I could ever possess such character, compassion, and courage.

            Although you easily fell into the pace of motherhood, and were eventually blessed with a little girl of your own, your legacy extends far beyond this. Three little boys grew up under your loving wings, and a generation later, so have I. As a child, innumerable lessons were learned and memories made during my travails to your house, a mere mile down the country lane separating us. When the neighbor dog decided to say hello with his teeth, you were there to wipe my tears. When my sisters and I spontaneously appeared on your door after a strenuous bicycle ride, you without fail stuffed us with tea and cookies. When you guided us through the construction of our first (and only) quilt, you taught me the importance of diligence and precision. As you tenderly nursed a dying bird rendered helpless after a collision with a window, you showed me the meaning of true compassion.

            But now the tables have turned. In the past two years, I have spent many nights with you, helping as you struggle to complete the most basic tasks, such as using the bathroom or getting up from a chair. The physical body you inhabit continues to fail you as osteoporosis and blindness are ever tightening their vicious claws in you. Yet, your mind has remained strong and steadfast. Lately, though, I watch helplessly as you slip a little more each day; sometimes you call, forgetting that you now live in an assisted living home, and instead begging to be returned to your old home on the farm. While your memory and clarity of thinking are in a slow regression, one thing will always remain: your extreme love and kindness towards your children and many grandchildren.

            A. A. Milne once wrote something profound that truly articulates the everlasting lessons I’ve learned from you: “If ever there is tomorrow when we're not together... there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we're apart . . . I'll always be with you.” 

Someday I sincerely hope to inspire as you have inspired, to give as you have given, and to love as you have loved. I love you, Grandma.