My grandmother, Lucille, died on March 16th. She was 88, today – Mother’s Day – would have been her 89th birthday. She loved having her birthday on Mother’s Day. She had been sick – so gracefully, but sick, nonetheless – for a few years. She was a woman so vibrant – kind and honest, thoughtful, caring, smart as a whip – she felt to all of us like she could just go on living forever, even though she was sick and we knew she could not. She lived a very full life – taking on adventures with gusto.  After my grandfather passed away, she took a roadtrip out west with her sisters and saw all the sights. What a hoot those ladies must have been.

Looking back through the lens of being a child, a teenager – I hope that I fully appreciated the time we spent at her house in the woods, sitting around the dining room table and looking out at the trees. There were bears in those woods! One stood once, fully outstretched, against the floor to ceiling window in the living room.  What a sight it must have been. That home now belongs to people raising a family – built by my grandparents, and my aunts and uncles, and my parents.

I admired her so much: her tenacity, her thoughtfulness. She took each of us how we were, at face value. She might have had her private judgments of us and the decisions we made, but she didn’t share them.  She listened. She offered advice. She made us Swedish meatballs and cookies, and she loved us.  Each of us – and there were so many! – had our own relationship with her, never felt upstaged by another (or, at least, not between my brothers and I), loved and important and seen. Do you understand how important that is? I didn’t, until now.

She loved a good board game. She loved a good joke or a long story. She went to school in a one room schoolhouse and she co-owned a construction company (and had the good sense to wear pants when she was headed up a ladder). Her faith was such an important part of her, the way she approached the world, and I had such deep respect for those beliefs (if she would take me as I was, it was the very least I could do to take her as she was). She was a terrifically good pianist. It was such an unbelievable pleasure when she came to my senior recital – a secret closely guarded, for good reason, and only the very best surprise. She loved music, and she loved me.

Many told me I was special to her in a different way, the first granddaughter after many years of boys. I hoped, desperately, for her to be as proud of me as I was full of adoration for her. I wanted to have her forever so that I could make sure to get all the wisdom for which I hadn’t yet thought to ask. That, of course, cannot be.

Grandma. We were so lucky to get to share in loving you. I’ll keep making you proud, I promise.