We all miss my mother terribly. She was simply the best. Yet, a stranger across the country apparently had the best grandmother ever as well and connected with me recently in a beautiful way.
A rainy day in the Pacific Northwest was brightened by a card received from across the country. Amongst her dearly loved grandmother’s belongings, Kay found this photo and my mother’s address label.
A bit of detective work, an envelope and stamp, and her card was being sent straight to my heart here in the tiny town of Ocean Shores, WA. In her card, she reveals how very special her grandmother was, and I can feel the love as I open the card.
I bask in the beauty of it all for a few moments as I reflect on the life of my mother who was a good mother and the very best of all grandmothers. It was my mother’s stated belief that she was born to be a grandmother. No one who knew my mother Marcia Jorgensen could deny the truth in this declaration. Our youngest daughter Carly described her as “the quintessential grandmother.” She was all that and so much more.
My dear mother had grown up with a vague sense of being unwanted. She knew she did not fit in. When she was 12 years old during a disagreement with her father, her suspicions were confirmed. In order to hurt her, he let her know they had intended to give her up for adoption at birth. Her little girl instincts had been right.
It was only after the cajoling of his timid wife that he retrieved his infant daughter from the lady missionary who had chosen my tiny newborn mother. I often wonder what my mother’s life would have been like had he not succumbed to my grandmother’s request. We will never know.
My own grandmother was considered pathologically shy. I realize now that she was probably highly sensitive and life with my complicated grandfather could not have been easy.
As a child, I had accidentally blurted out the words, “ I love you!” to my introverted grandmother. She was so surprised and embarrassed by this unprecedented outburst that she remained silent for what seemed like ages. Eventually, she reached out to pat my arm and assured me that she liked me a lot too. I was mortified. This was my relationship with my only living grandmother in a nutshell.
It was from our mother that my sister and I learned about the authentic love of a grandmother. There are no words to describe the affection and tenderness my mother had for each of her five grandchildren.
Well-meaning grandparents often seem intent on providing instruction, lessons, advice, and training to their progeny. In this way, they may seek to indoctrinate grandchildren in their own interests. Perhaps they believe that by passing on their passions, they will validate their own existence. My mother did nothing of this sort, providing instruction only if requested and never in lecture form.
Instead, she spent countless hours reading to my girls the books of their choice and watching movies they chose to watch, never once suggesting an alternative in order to ease boredom or please herself. She listened intently as they educated her on baseball cards, topics learned in school, and the latest trends and gossip. She played Memory and Old Maid with them for hours on end and never won a game.
My mother considered herself a winner whenever she was in their presence. Not for a second did they doubt her absolute love and devotion to them. She wanted them to know there was always someone in their corner.
She and my father were both good parents who would later apologize for their tendency toward harshness. They were simply doing the best they could at the time, and their vulnerability and willingness to ask forgiveness touched me to the core. In the act of grandparenting, they continued to grow as human beings and experienced a profound love they had never before known.
Sixteen years ago, I became a grandparent when my daughter gave birth to Kenny, who soon had us captivated by his unique charms. My parents adored him, and he experienced all the joys great-grandparents can provide including tractor rides and home-baked pies and cookies.
My father sadly passed shortly after the birth of my second grandson Dakota and would not be able to welcome brother Kobe or Kalia Rose who was to be his only great-grandaughter.
My youngest daughter’s two precious little boys Titus and Miles were also the beneficiaries of the love of a great grandmother which is so very precious. Kalia Rose was especially close to my mother who played patty-cake with her, made her soft-boiled eggs and toast, and read to her endlessly, never once turning down a chance for a snuggle. They were in love with each other in the purest sense.
Losing my mother was a blow to all of us, but at four years old, Kalia could not comprehend the permanent absence of her favorite person in the world. She still randomly insists on a good cry when this reality presents itself, which it does on occasion.
As her grandmother, this is my cue to hold her, comfort her, and let her talk it out. To be there and meet her with love. To let her know someone is always in her corner. And together we miss my mother and honor her life of love.
by Leslee Madsen 
by Elizabeth Dardes 
