Well Done, Good and Faithful Servant: A Tribute to My Grandmother

I was standing in line outside the Lower Burrell Moose Lodge to vote in the November 2020 election. The line was very long, and given how contentious that election season had been, you could feel the tension in the air.

Standing in front of me was a couple who looked to be roughly my parents’ age. The husband jokingly said to his wife, “quit being an old studda bubba.”

For those of you who don’t know, this is Polish term that means “old woman,” or “old grandmother.” Your typical studda bubba wore a babushka, walked with a cane, with a sack of groceries on one arm, and prayed the rosary in church every Sunday morning.”

I said to the man, “I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but my grandmother calls herself “studda bubba” all the time.” “That’s what we called my grandmother, too” he said with a smile. Before I knew it, I was in a lively conversation with two complete strangers about our grandmothers. I told them about how my grandmother always joked about being “old,” but she never acted “old.” I told them of how she was so fiercely independent that she did all her own yardwork well into her eighties, and that time when my Uncle Ed found her passed out in the yard when and she woke up, she dusted herself off and kept on working. I spoke about the copious amounts of butter she put on nearly all her food, and that no one ever left her house on an empty stomach.

She absolutely loved feeding people. I remember an occasion when the neighborhood children would knock on her door and ask her if she’d baked her famous pepperoni rolls. I say “famous,” because during a church dessert auction, a church member paid $200 for all the pepperoni rolls she’d made. And even though she wasn’t Italian, she made the best homemade lasagna I’ve ever had.

She was also a perfectionist. She’d made several dozen peanut butter blossoms when my family and I came to visit, and she put a note on the Ziploc bag that said, “these cookies are just okay.” I ate one, and my daughter ate one, and we thought they were perfect.

She had this old porcelain tub in her bathroom—and she kept this thing so clean that you could see your face in it. Her house was so clean, in fact, that all her furnishings and fixtures looked like they’d just come off the showroom floor. The same with her car. It was a 1993 model, and it shined like new until the day she stopped driving it.

I think she even ironed her sheets—because whenever I stayed over, the bed was made perfectly. The sheets were on so tight that you could bounce a nickel off of it, just like in the army barracks. 

But all of that paled in comparison to the fact that she was a person of love. There was no such thing as a stranger to her. She knew just about everyone in Carmichaels, just as they knew her. When she ate out, the servers wanted her table because she was always generous with the tips and never raised a fuss. 

She wasn’t shy about inviting people to church, and making them feel welcome when they came. For years, she drove a fellow church member to Sunday service and took her home—even when this woman was in a nursing home. She didn’t stop taking her to church until they said she could no longer go. Even animals loved her. Our family dog was never as excited to see anyone as she was when Grandma came along. 

My mom and uncle worked very hard to keep the laughter going, because about five years ago, things started happening that were nothing to laugh about.

We knew, and she knew, that her memory was beginning to slip. Then she suffered some falls and times of rehab. My mom and uncle did everything in their power to try and keep her in her home—but soon, she didn’t even recognize her house as her home. By the spring of 2019, there was no other option but to move her into Country Meadows Memory Care Home. It took some time for her to adjust. It wasn’t in her DNA to be confined to a wheelchair and having people do things for her. She thrived on being the one to did for others. We could see that she was feeling homesick for the loved ones she’d lost decades ago—her husband, her father, her mother. 

But gradually she began to enjoy herself and make new friends. The staff there absolutely loved her. 

But her mind and memory continued their decline. By the time of my second-to-last visit, she recognized me, but she could no longer speak in full sentences. There was, however, one thing she did say repeatedly: “I’m tired.”

In the hospital, in a rare moment of clarity, she said to her doctor, “I don’t want to live this way.” And none of us can blame her for that. She fought the good fight; her kind and loving spirit endured even as mind and body faded away. With her children at her side, she breathed her last—and Jesus welcomed her into her heavenly home. 

And while we rejoice that God’s promises to her have been fulfilled, we cannot deny the enormity of our loss. She brought so much love and laughter and goodness and joy to this world. She was the hub of our family; she was a pillar of her church; she was the light of our lives. Today, it is our turn to keep the spirit of her love alive. There is no better way to honor her memory than to practice the kindness and generosity we all know her for. 

And though life is going to be very different from this point on, the same God who cared for her in life will care for you just the same. Death does not have the last word; not for Christ; not for grandma; not for any of the saints who have gone before us. Just the same, death does not have the last word for us who continue in our pilgrimage through this life. 

There is still so much more of life to be lived; so many more memories to be made; so much more good to be done. Though we hurt now, we will heal. You will get through this difficult time and you will experience joy again. 

And know that grandma is praying for you, together with all the saints who’ve gone before you. Christ will shepherd you through your grief into life renewed. And one day, when the times are fulfilled, the trumpet will sound, and we will all be raised and live forever around the throne of the Lamb. 

The pain and sorrow of this day will last only for a time, but life and joy in the Lord is yours forever.