At the age of five I would go with my Grandma to this old country church, hidden away in a sleepy hollow called, Cedar Valley. On cold winter days, while Jack Frost was doing his Michael-Angelo’s, I would sit in the back with the old timers, my numb toes burning under the whoosh of the wood stove. Those jolly old men made church just as warm as that stove.
Inevitably my attention would drift and my gaze would fall on this immense painting of the ascension of Christ keeping sentinel above the pulpit. Whenever my gaze fell upon it, it was like I could sense the Spirit in my bones. I can still smell the musty wood and brewing coffee of that happy memory.
Or what of Christmas Eve! Generations of family and neighbors, all gathered at the farm house, nestled in snow. The smell of pine and the litter of presents spilling into the great room. Children’s laughter, Great-Grandma’s prayers, and folk reminiscing around the blazing hearth.
I will always miss your chocolate chip cookies, your rhubarb sauce, and being tucked into crisp sheets at bedtime. I will miss Grandpa’s dry jokes, and my uncle wrestling with me on the floor. You were always my happy place, in a world that had spun out of control. I love you Grandma, I always will.