Lawnmowers in Heaven

Dear Grandma Smith,

It was the summer of 1989 when you taught me the value of generosity. You were wearing your white canvas Keds and that lightweight green golf outfit. I was wearing my favorite pair of farmer jeans (or overalls as most people called them) when we walked together into the local Big Lots. The toy section of the store was calling me. There on the wall was a brand new Cabbage Patch outfit for my baby doll. It was a baseball uniform, and I desperately wanted it. I was afraid to ask for it, but you somehow read my mind.

“You and your sister can pick out something you want. Do you want that baseball uniform for your doll, Lindi?”

You made it sound so easy. All I had to do was pick out a toy and it was mine. Grandmothers were great, I thought. Not only did she have the coolest house ever, but she also had a heart of gold. Still, I felt guilty about you buying me a gift. I didn’t NEED this baby doll outfit. But you reassured me.

“I want to buy this for you,” you stated sharply. That serious and commonplace demeanor was something I came to appreciate about you. Those platitudes were consistently reassuring to a girl who worried too much about an ever-changing world.

It was then I realized the concept of gift-giving and generosity….to give without expecting anything in return…to give simply because you loved.

This sort of unconditional love cannot be duplicated or replaced. You, Grandma Smith, can never be replaced.

I always knew you were mortal, even though you were always the freshest cookie in the jar. You would make a quip at me every time I bounced a ball against your basement wall or each time I tried to jump on the bed in your attic. I hope I didn’t test your patience too much. There are some many wonderful memories I have of you, Grandma: your green house, your homemade waffles, playing ‘store’ in your basement, learning how to golf and garden, swinging on your wooden bench, walking to the park with you, learning how to hang clothes on the clothesline and make peanut butter balls. It was in playing Canasta and RACKO that I realized what a sore loser we BOTH were. It was during the winters in West Virginia when I discovered that I was just as stubborn as you were (Why couldn’t I go outside without a jacket? Why did you insist on shoveling your own driveway when people were willing to help?) It was during the nights in my mother’s old bedroom where I learned to laugh. You would tuck me into bed, with more blankets than any child would ever need, and ask if I needed anything before I went to sleep. I would laugh, thinking how crazy old Grandma always wanted to turn the heat on in a bedroom that had to be the warmest one in the world. Now I realize and understand those endearing moments were about so much more than blankets and good night’s sleep. They were about a loving, comforting Grandmother. A Grandmother, who without question, provided for her grandchildren. A Grandmother who loved golf, playing the lottery and mowing her lawn...but one who would have done anything for her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Our lives are too often consumed by days we take for granted. I wish you could have been there to see me play tennis in college, to witness my graduation from high school. I would have liked to have had you visit me in Texas and see me get married one day. I wish I could have said goodbye to you, Grandma. I would have liked to have been there to hold you one more time, to feel your embrace one last moment. I admired you and loved you. I always will. I have taken from you more than your toys and gifts. I have taken your loyalty, sensitivity and selflessness. I have taken your passion for life out on the rolling mountaintops.

It was time for you to leave us. God brought you home. You will be missed here among the mortals, Grandma. We take comfort in knowing you are now mowing the lawns of heaven…and who better than to have that responsibility than you?