Tribute to My Grandmother
On March 25th, my precious grandmother, Kate Holder, passed away. She was ninety-six years old, and had lived a good, full life. I struggled greatly with not being able to return home to grieve with my family and celebrate her life with them at her funeral. Though I always knew that part of this life would be missing things like this, actually experiencing the loss and having to grieve halfway around the world from her and my family was painful.
I think one of the hardest parts of not being there was grieving alone. So many people loved and admired her, and to be so far from family and friends as they gathered together to talk about her, remember her, grieve her death, and celebrate her life was difficult.
But I called my parents every morning and night for those few days and they filled me in on details as funeral arrangements were made and the visitation and funeral came and went, and it helped so much to be a part of things in that way. They also videoed the funeral service, took pictures, and saved me a program so that I can share in those things as well.
I wrote the following letter to her that was read by a friend of the family at her funeral service. Maybe it will give you a glimpse into the kind of lady she was, and how much she meant to me.
Dear Grandma,
I sure wish I could say this to you face to face, hug your neck one last time and tell you I love you. We all knew this day would come, but it doesn’t make it any easier.
A lifetime of memories and a heart brimming full of love makes it nearly impossible to describe what I feel as I remember you. There’s so much about you that is such a deep part of me. Memories of you are memories of home—feelings of warmth and love and happiness that come from the peace of belonging. Images of the familiar, like apple slices drying on the dashboard of your car, wind chimes singing their peaceful song from the front porch, purple hydrangeas and a field of yellow daffodils, and a well tended garden promising all manner of good things.
I remember bright Easter Sundays and egg hunts in your backyard, the smell of Brunswick stew and biscuits and cornbread drifting on the breeze, and you hard at work in the kitchen with your apron on, cooking and serving and making sure everybody got taken care of.
I remember staying with you the times I was sick and couldn’t go to school—you sitting in your rocking chair piecing a quilt or shelling pecans or butterbeans, and me sitting in the chair beside you eating chicken soup and soda crackers and graham crackers, thinking how much better it all tasted at your house.
I remember you teaching me how to cook, and asking you how much salt or whatnot to put in. You said, “Oh, ‘bout a pinch or two,” and “Well, just til it gets to tastin’ right.” It was at that moment I realized that knowing how much to put in without measuring is what made you such a great cook. Though we all try, none of us can make an apple pie, caramel cake, blackberry cobbler, sweet potato biscuits, or anything else like you did.
I remember you doctoring me with campho-phenique the day I got into some ants when Daddy and the men were cutting up a limb that had fallen from the old oak tree. I learned that day that campho-phenique and a grandmother’s love can help just about anything.
I’ll always remember the sight of you working in your garden—pulling weeds, picking tomatoes, hoeing and such, all the way up til the last few years of your life. And I know if I’d have been there to see it, I’d never forget the sight of you, 90 plus years old, climbing through your window to get into the locked house… You never were one to let much stand in your way when you were determined.
I remember your love for hymns and good southern gospel music, and how you loved to hear us sing and play, no matter how good or bad it might have been. And I remember your love for reading Janette Oke books and watching Little House on the Prairie, both of which I inherited a love for also.
I remember the twinkle in your eye and the way you’d smile and try so hard not to show your teeth, but how Daddy could always say something that would make you lean your head back and laugh out loud.
I remember the hum of the sewing machine and the curve of your back as you skillfully pushed the fabric through. And I remember your hands—hands that were strong and productive—always busy providing for your family or making something to care for others.
I remember your humility and the strength of your faith—you reading the Word and watching Billy Graham speak, and the way your life spoke without you having to say a word.
I remember how you cared for and delighted in your children and grandchildren and great grand children. And how your eyes could speak volumes, shining so with humor or pride or love, eyes that had seen nearly a century of changes in this world and held in them all the wisdom of a lifetime.
I remember your presence—quiet and steady, humble, full of dignity and strength and grace. You were a woman of principle, of temperance and faith, a woman of devotion to your family and loved ones, who loved the Father and hated gossip and strife. You were quick-witted and good-natured, and when you spoke, people listened ‘cause they knew it was worth hearing.
Grandma, all the words in the world can’t capture the person that you were or the life that you lived, or the depth of character that you had. All the letters in the world couldn’t describe how much I’ve learned from you and how much I’ve admired you in so many ways. And even though I know you didn’t love to be the center of attention, you’re the kind of person who deserved to be. And so today I join with all my family as we rise up and call you blessed, for you have left us a legacy of faith and love that we will treasure and carry with us for the rest of our lives.
I love you with all my heart, Grandma, and I’ll miss you dearly, as long as I live on this earth. But I know that one day, when we see each other again, we’ll turn our eyes together toward our Blessed One, the Rock of Ages, and worship Him side by side throughout all eternity.
Until then, Grandma,
With all my love,Gracy
I sure wish I could say this to you face to face, hug your neck one last time and tell you I love you. We all knew this day would come, but it doesn’t make it any easier.
A lifetime of memories and a heart brimming full of love makes it nearly impossible to describe what I feel as I remember you. There’s so much about you that is such a deep part of me. Memories of you are memories of home—feelings of warmth and love and happiness that come from the peace of belonging. Images of the familiar, like apple slices drying on the dashboard of your car, wind chimes singing their peaceful song from the front porch, purple hydrangeas and a field of yellow daffodils, and a well tended garden promising all manner of good things.
I remember bright Easter Sundays and egg hunts in your backyard, the smell of Brunswick stew and biscuits and cornbread drifting on the breeze, and you hard at work in the kitchen with your apron on, cooking and serving and making sure everybody got taken care of.
I remember staying with you the times I was sick and couldn’t go to school—you sitting in your rocking chair piecing a quilt or shelling pecans or butterbeans, and me sitting in the chair beside you eating chicken soup and soda crackers and graham crackers, thinking how much better it all tasted at your house.
I remember you teaching me how to cook, and asking you how much salt or whatnot to put in. You said, “Oh, ‘bout a pinch or two,” and “Well, just til it gets to tastin’ right.” It was at that moment I realized that knowing how much to put in without measuring is what made you such a great cook. Though we all try, none of us can make an apple pie, caramel cake, blackberry cobbler, sweet potato biscuits, or anything else like you did.
I remember you doctoring me with campho-phenique the day I got into some ants when Daddy and the men were cutting up a limb that had fallen from the old oak tree. I learned that day that campho-phenique and a grandmother’s love can help just about anything.
I’ll always remember the sight of you working in your garden—pulling weeds, picking tomatoes, hoeing and such, all the way up til the last few years of your life. And I know if I’d have been there to see it, I’d never forget the sight of you, 90 plus years old, climbing through your window to get into the locked house… You never were one to let much stand in your way when you were determined.
I remember your love for hymns and good southern gospel music, and how you loved to hear us sing and play, no matter how good or bad it might have been. And I remember your love for reading Janette Oke books and watching Little House on the Prairie, both of which I inherited a love for also.
I remember the twinkle in your eye and the way you’d smile and try so hard not to show your teeth, but how Daddy could always say something that would make you lean your head back and laugh out loud.
I remember the hum of the sewing machine and the curve of your back as you skillfully pushed the fabric through. And I remember your hands—hands that were strong and productive—always busy providing for your family or making something to care for others.
I remember your humility and the strength of your faith—you reading the Word and watching Billy Graham speak, and the way your life spoke without you having to say a word.
I remember how you cared for and delighted in your children and grandchildren and great grand children. And how your eyes could speak volumes, shining so with humor or pride or love, eyes that had seen nearly a century of changes in this world and held in them all the wisdom of a lifetime.
I remember your presence—quiet and steady, humble, full of dignity and strength and grace. You were a woman of principle, of temperance and faith, a woman of devotion to your family and loved ones, who loved the Father and hated gossip and strife. You were quick-witted and good-natured, and when you spoke, people listened ‘cause they knew it was worth hearing.
Grandma, all the words in the world can’t capture the person that you were or the life that you lived, or the depth of character that you had. All the letters in the world couldn’t describe how much I’ve learned from you and how much I’ve admired you in so many ways. And even though I know you didn’t love to be the center of attention, you’re the kind of person who deserved to be. And so today I join with all my family as we rise up and call you blessed, for you have left us a legacy of faith and love that we will treasure and carry with us for the rest of our lives.
I love you with all my heart, Grandma, and I’ll miss you dearly, as long as I live on this earth. But I know that one day, when we see each other again, we’ll turn our eyes together toward our Blessed One, the Rock of Ages, and worship Him side by side throughout all eternity.
Until then, Grandma,
With all my love,Gracy
posted by David Thomas Bondy @ 10:50 AM
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