Flung into...

Memories seem to have a profound effect on people. They do on me. Some memories bring tears of joy, others bring tears of pain. I guess you can say I am a crier. Movies have brought me to tears, a word of encouragement, a photograph, a song, a friend’s face… all these things have evoked tears from my eyes but memories seem to be a theme lately in my life.

I went to my grandmother’s house for the second time after her death, the first time in almost seven months. As my mom and I drove to the house she asked me if I would be okay, I responded with a definite, dare I say assured “yes.” Of course I would be okay, I was strong. I had dealt with her death in a healthy way. I was assured…

Assured of where she is now…

Assured that all would be well as I stepped into the house, that the memories would not come, that because she would not be present no tears would come…

Not so assured, the memories came. I attempted to hold it back. “Do not look around yourself,” I told myself. “Do not think about it.”

My grandma had the perfect kitchen. The window above the kitchen sink overlooked her back yard and a wonderful deck where we would at times enjoy a meal. The window would open up, opened so we could yell out to those rough housing in the pool, or pass out a bowl of watermelon. The image of her squishy vein covered hand at the end of which were her well-self- manicured nails, she pushes open the window. Bam it came. The tears. Don’t walk through the kitchen.

I walk into the back room her bedroom, curled up on the bed I let it come, let it flow. Though, it did not all come. I look out the blind laden window, remembering the time sitting in that window peeking through the blinds to see my grandmother picking a switch off the tree to spank me because, yes you guessed it… I was a kid, imperfect, yes I know hard to imagine. Sometimes I would peek through the blinds hoping mom would get there sooner, why? Why did I ever think like that? I cannot even smell her anymore in that house, even in her room. It is all to clean.

Every part of that house, every little thing, yes it is just things, every little thing she left behind holds a memory. My mom lived in that house for fourteen years, my brother, sisters and I practically grew up there. That house, my grandma, were both constant in my life. The house is still here on this earth but it now, well almost, belongs to another family, no longer a constant. My grandma is no longer on this earth, she though, her actions, her words, her life, her love, will remain. Although she is now with her Father in heaven, her love continues on through her children, through her grandchildren, her church, her friends, every person she ever touched. God’s love flowed through this woman. She at times felt her inadequacy almost empower her but Jesus always conquered.

Her life exemplified Christ. Not all the time but she strived to seek her Savior’s face and to love others.


The little things that people do will have great effect on our lives. I could care less if the sweater I was wearing right now was my grandma’s but it is a comfort to me that I know who wore this and she was a great woman.

Memories are good so is the memorabilia but… look beyond that.

I should be pouring into people’s lives love and grace. This life is very short, very short. Like a grain of sand. I do not have much time to sit around consuming stuff but I should have time to love. Oh man, to love so much.

I should probably be doing more of that.