Grandmother, I never met you this side of Heaven, but I feel as though I have. Your pictures, scattered throughout my mother’s home, tell your story.
Born to a woman who came to this country alone when she was just 16, you would be the youngest of four, with two sisters and a brother. Your short, dark, straight hair clings to your little face, a line of bangs neatly combed high on your forehead. You couldn’t be more than three years old as you sit on a stool at your sister’s First Holy Communion. The black and white photo makes you look like a porcelain doll with your pale complexion and your white outfit. The baby of the family, just like me.
At the age of nine, it’s your turn as you stand in all white, right hand clutching a candle while resting on a little table. A bouquet sits next to your hand and reaches almost to the height of your veiled head. Your First Holy Communion would grow into a lifelong love of Jesus Christ. A love you would pass on to your daughters, and in turn, to me.
Sitting on a hillside, you casually lean on your left hand. Your curly hair sits close to your face. I can’t tell if it’s pulled back or if it’s that short. A headband is the only accessory I see. Your right arm rests around a handsome man in suspenders, his hand placed respectfully on your skirt, just above your knee. You look so happy. So at ease. So young and free. So in love. I don’t know what year the picture was taken, but you married this man. A union that would become fraught with pain. But there was love, and it gave you my mother. The best gift you could have given me.
You relax on a couch with joy in your eyes, watching your two daughters open Christmas gifts. There aren’t many presents, but you were always willing to work hard to provide for your family. Taking odd jobs to stay home while your children were young, you did people’s laundry, made homemade noodles, baked ethnic breads, and other delicious treats. Divorced, you did what you had to, having left a man who had fallen victim to alcohol and become abusive. You taught your daughters to stand up for themselves. To be resilient and strong. And in return, your daughter taught this to me.
Standing at the back door, overlooking the alley where your daughters play with friends, you invite in a stranger looking for help. Homemade root beer lines the cellar steps—a neighborhood favorite. Your food is so good that several have asked you to open a restaurant. You decline but never hesitate to share food and faith with all who are hungry. Your creative work ethic and generosity, despite what little you have, shine in all you do. A heart of service I recognize in myself.
You sit at a kitchen table with your two sisters, laughing so hard it looks like you’re all about to fall over. Despite days heavy with depression, you find and remember what matters most. The joy of your faith, and of your family. Something my mother taught me.
Short, curly, gray hair sits neatly above a pink dress, while white beads grace your neck. At the age of 54, you treated yourself to your first professional photo. There is a kindness in your eyes and in your smile. I wish I knew what you were thinking that day. Did you know by the end of the year you would be with Jesus? I wonder if in heaven, you met me.
You passed away just two years before I was born. Ovarian cancer may have taken you from this world, but it couldn’t take your legacy. You were a woman of wisdom and strength. A force of love and light. I feel you, and all the women who came before you, cheering me on. You were a woman just like me.
by Vicki Bahr 
by Betsy Moore 
by Miranda Hawkins 
