Dear Grandma, Thank You.

Dear Grandma.

Dear Grandma, there are many things that I said to you in the past months.  Things that I hoped registered, somewhere deep inside, in a place the horrors of Alzheimer's cannot reach.  Today, I say them for the last time.

Dear Grandma, thank you.

Thank you for your courage.

People tend to resort to hyperbole in the wake of death, making the deceased out to be far greater than the life they actually lived.  But oh, my grandma, you are the bravest woman I know.

You were brave enough to forsake your South Hill heritage to marry a cowboy from Seven Mile.  I cannot imagine, coming from a life of wealth, what those years living in an unfinished house in only the basement were like for you.

You walked through the terrors of infertility, only to see the goodness of God in your eleven children that honored you today, and the one that you are finally reunited with in heaven.

And, you lived out your final years with courage and dignity, during both the times of "light fantasies and grim terrors".

Dear Grandma, thank you.

Thank you for your strength.

As I try to raise four daughters to be strong women, they only need to look to you as their model for a feminine, determined, unwavering life well lived.

You were strong as you faced the possibility of losing a second child, and strong as you tirelessly cared for her, knowing you would forever care for her.  And you did, so, so well.

You were strong as you walked through the illness and death of not one, but two husbands.  You modeled for all of us what it means to live out our marriage vows.

Dear Grandma, thank you.

Thank you for your love.

When I was 23 and scared of the road ahead, facing my dad's terminal cancer diagnosis, you were there.  You were there on the bad days when no one really knew what to say.  You were there as his breathing stilled and we stood at his bedside, unsure of how to face the pain of life without him.  I'll never forget you opening your bible and reading Psalm 23, reminding us that it was not truly his end.

When I was 24 and immobilized with grief over the death of my infant daughter, you were there.  I was not brave.  I was not strong.  I did not know how to face the pain of life without her.  And then, you stood and spoke.  You spoke of the grief over your own child, Robert Walker, and as you wept, you freed me to grieve as long as needed.  To grieve a lifetime over a lifetime lost.

Dear Grandma.

Dear Grandma, today, as dozens rose up to call you blessed, we rejoice in a life well lived and we grieve.  We'll be grieving for a lifetime.

Dear Grandma, I love you.  We love you.  Thank you.