I said goodbye to Grandma today and I had the privilege of speaking at her service. I want to share with all of you my thoughts on this wonderful women who had such an enormous impact on my life.
“When I started out writing this, I had this brand new, pristine piece of paper, (hold up paper) fresh, unmarked, pure and shiny. But this here is what I ended up with, (hold up other paper) this wrinkled, smudged, and worn piece of paper. It started out so perfect, but as I wrote, my hand smudged the words. When I didn't get things just right, I crossed them out and started over. Its tear stained in spots, messy in others, and I don't think I could think of anything better to represent a life well lived. So here it goes.
‘You all knew Elizabeth (or Betty as everyone called her), as a friend, or a neighbor, a sister, a mother, or maybe you were just blessed enough to be touched by her very existence in some way. She was someone I, along with several others, got the honor of calling my Grandmother. Now I don't know the all the intimate details of her life before mine started, obviously. But I have heard many stories, most of them while sitting at her kitchen table elbow deep in some sort of canning concoction, pie recipe....perhaps while planting tomatoes in those little cardboard milk cartons. I do know that she knew poverty, she knew sacrifice, she showed grace and kindness, and most of all she showed love. She was the second born of nine girls, on a farm, my poor Papa. But my grandma always said girls could do anything boys could do, only better, and she was taught that by her father. Now one of my favorite stories was how she met her late husband Fred, my Grandfather. She would beam as she recounted that blind date. They went to the fair, her father had given her money if there was an emergency, and she had made sure she had a rock in her pocketbook just in case. I remember I always asked her how it ended and all she would say was, "well, we're together aren't we?" So nearly 67 years of marriage, 6 children, 10 grandchildren, and 6 great-grand children later....I think we can assume she didn't need that rock.
To me, my Gram was nothing short of a saint. I have heard she had her moments, when in frustration she had told her kids she was leaving them and walked over the hill to her parents house just to escape the chaos. My mom Judy, tells me it was pretty convincing to a five year old, and she cried and yelled at her older brothers for her now not having a mother. Then there were the times that were familiar to me, when my cousins, my sister, and I would be so bold, well, mainly my sister Mandy. Anyway she would end up being held in the chair (because she was too stubborn to sit there on her own) while the rest of us would end up standing in the corner with a mouth full of soap. And I can't forget how I thought only a slave driver would make her grandchildren sweep the porch, dust the kitchen table set, or weed in the garden. But looking back, those are the things that built our character, taught us boundaries, showed us that hard work was good for the soul...and ivory soap would not, in fact, poison us.
My favorite memories though, are the small ones. Being pushed on the swing-set, while my Gram would sing that song "Daisy, Daisy" or "You are my Sunshine" over and over again while the smell of fresh cut grass and sound of my grandpa pushing the mower hung in the air with the sun so warm it made the top of your head hot to the touch. Going on walks down the drive way to get the mail and my grandma telling the dog to "sit" while she crossed the road to the mail box. Or being taught to read with those "Dick and Jane" books and giggling behind her back because who one earth named their son that! And pretending to still be asleep when she came to check on me during my nap because I knew, she would pull the blanket off and cover me back up just right. Then of course I don't think that there is a single one of us here that hasn't experienced being called the famous "Judy, Bonnie, Barbara" followed by a shlew of other incorrect names, before she got to the correct one, and then second guessed herself anyway.
I can truly say that I have enjoyed all these years of observing what made her...Her. That generosity she would show a stranger at the door wanting to sell her something, when she would invite him in for lunch (because we all know, she would never eat in front of company without offering them something as well), that compassion when any child put before her would get a hug and a kiss and be made to feel like they were one of her own, they were special, important. That unwavering patience she would show to any situation that would drive most of us up the wall, absolutely insane, and of course that devotion that she showed to her husband, her family, and her faith.’
And so there I sat, my paper well worn, my hand sore from use, blackened by the ink that smudged along the way. The story being written had changed not only the paper, but me, and now you for having heard it, just like her in our lives changed all of us. One of my Grandmothers frequent sayings was "It's hell to get old." But I say, it sure beats the alternative. The end may have been hard, really hard, but her journey, her impact on our family, that was worth growing old for, and I hope, no I pray...that we all end up like this piece of paper. Wrinkled, smudged, worn, and maybe even a little tear stained...because then, just like Betty, we all will have really lived.”
RIP Grandma
April 3, 1927-December 26, 2017
“When I started out writing this, I had this brand new, pristine piece of paper, (hold up paper) fresh, unmarked, pure and shiny. But this here is what I ended up with, (hold up other paper) this wrinkled, smudged, and worn piece of paper. It started out so perfect, but as I wrote, my hand smudged the words. When I didn't get things just right, I crossed them out and started over. Its tear stained in spots, messy in others, and I don't think I could think of anything better to represent a life well lived. So here it goes.
‘You all knew Elizabeth (or Betty as everyone called her), as a friend, or a neighbor, a sister, a mother, or maybe you were just blessed enough to be touched by her very existence in some way. She was someone I, along with several others, got the honor of calling my Grandmother. Now I don't know the all the intimate details of her life before mine started, obviously. But I have heard many stories, most of them while sitting at her kitchen table elbow deep in some sort of canning concoction, pie recipe....perhaps while planting tomatoes in those little cardboard milk cartons. I do know that she knew poverty, she knew sacrifice, she showed grace and kindness, and most of all she showed love. She was the second born of nine girls, on a farm, my poor Papa. But my grandma always said girls could do anything boys could do, only better, and she was taught that by her father. Now one of my favorite stories was how she met her late husband Fred, my Grandfather. She would beam as she recounted that blind date. They went to the fair, her father had given her money if there was an emergency, and she had made sure she had a rock in her pocketbook just in case. I remember I always asked her how it ended and all she would say was, "well, we're together aren't we?" So nearly 67 years of marriage, 6 children, 10 grandchildren, and 6 great-grand children later....I think we can assume she didn't need that rock.
To me, my Gram was nothing short of a saint. I have heard she had her moments, when in frustration she had told her kids she was leaving them and walked over the hill to her parents house just to escape the chaos. My mom Judy, tells me it was pretty convincing to a five year old, and she cried and yelled at her older brothers for her now not having a mother. Then there were the times that were familiar to me, when my cousins, my sister, and I would be so bold, well, mainly my sister Mandy. Anyway she would end up being held in the chair (because she was too stubborn to sit there on her own) while the rest of us would end up standing in the corner with a mouth full of soap. And I can't forget how I thought only a slave driver would make her grandchildren sweep the porch, dust the kitchen table set, or weed in the garden. But looking back, those are the things that built our character, taught us boundaries, showed us that hard work was good for the soul...and ivory soap would not, in fact, poison us.
My favorite memories though, are the small ones. Being pushed on the swing-set, while my Gram would sing that song "Daisy, Daisy" or "You are my Sunshine" over and over again while the smell of fresh cut grass and sound of my grandpa pushing the mower hung in the air with the sun so warm it made the top of your head hot to the touch. Going on walks down the drive way to get the mail and my grandma telling the dog to "sit" while she crossed the road to the mail box. Or being taught to read with those "Dick and Jane" books and giggling behind her back because who one earth named their son that! And pretending to still be asleep when she came to check on me during my nap because I knew, she would pull the blanket off and cover me back up just right. Then of course I don't think that there is a single one of us here that hasn't experienced being called the famous "Judy, Bonnie, Barbara" followed by a shlew of other incorrect names, before she got to the correct one, and then second guessed herself anyway.
I can truly say that I have enjoyed all these years of observing what made her...Her. That generosity she would show a stranger at the door wanting to sell her something, when she would invite him in for lunch (because we all know, she would never eat in front of company without offering them something as well), that compassion when any child put before her would get a hug and a kiss and be made to feel like they were one of her own, they were special, important. That unwavering patience she would show to any situation that would drive most of us up the wall, absolutely insane, and of course that devotion that she showed to her husband, her family, and her faith.’
And so there I sat, my paper well worn, my hand sore from use, blackened by the ink that smudged along the way. The story being written had changed not only the paper, but me, and now you for having heard it, just like her in our lives changed all of us. One of my Grandmothers frequent sayings was "It's hell to get old." But I say, it sure beats the alternative. The end may have been hard, really hard, but her journey, her impact on our family, that was worth growing old for, and I hope, no I pray...that we all end up like this piece of paper. Wrinkled, smudged, worn, and maybe even a little tear stained...because then, just like Betty, we all will have really lived.”
RIP Grandma
April 3, 1927-December 26, 2017
