Be careful, she said, the ferns will take over your whole yard. Lucky me. |
If Hope, my grandma were alive, she would be 99. She died eight years ago today. It was the moment I spent my whole childhood dreading. She was the world to me. It was okay. We were okay. I'm so lucky she got to meet Mary and Calvin. We were blessed in a million ways. I called her Mama, because that's what my mom called her. And that's why my kids call me, mama.
This morning I was running on empty, four hours of sleep, from the Christmas-list-wire-you-in-the-night-elf's visit. I went to the shelf looking for some inspiration for the day. I pulled down "The Mystery of Holy Night" by Dietrich Bonhoeffer. It was skinny and looked manageable for 20 minutes. About that moment my calendar app notified me that it was the anniversary of Mama's death. As I opened the thin advent devotional, there on the inside cover was my handwriting. "To Mama, with blessed memories of special Christmases. I love you, Sara." Dated 1997. Most of the time she was giving me books, but in 1997 I guess it was my turn. She gave it back to me upon her death. I thumbed through it and two book marks fell out. They were just simple paper, cut from the renewal insert cards of "The Lutheran" periodical. It was a sacred moment. A tap on the shoulder from an angel. She would have called it a God moment.
On Christmas Eve I would walk down to the Jack and Jill grocery store with her, and there was always snow. Always. Today, Bing Crosby's "White Christmas" is reminding me of her and those Christmas memories. Of course I have extended writing about this from various special times when I felt the strong need for documentation. Another blog, I'll write them all out. It will be like the single spaced typed two page Christmas letter you get from a distant college friend. You might have to skim. It's mostly for me anyway.
I miss you, Mama. Thanks for the God moments.
Sara
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w9QLn7gM-hY