I’ve been using AI at times to create an image for my blog posts. This one really hit the mark.

My maternal grandmother was one of my heroes. She’d rise with the sun to welcome each day. She was a sturdy woman, even though the crepey skin on her arms fluttered in the breeze. I suppose farm life takes its toll on a body, but her bright blue eyes continually danced with a love I can’t explain. I cannot remember her without white hair, securely braided and tucked into a bun to keep it off her face. That face was etched with wrinkles, or as she called them – laugh lines.

Before she became the woman I knew as a child, she was being readied for the farm life. Her family camped across the western states from Helena, Montana to their eventual home in Antigo, Wisconsin. A true pioneer, she knew all about being on the lookout for danger at every turn. She was familiar with gathering buffalo chips to act as fuel for the sleeping hours. She learned how to cook for a crowd. Apparently, she loved to entertain. She always prepared a great table with tons of yummy food. I learned my love for acting from her. Her imagination and ability to create a story grew from those days on the prairie.

She birthed eight babies. Five of them died at very young ages, either tragically or from terminal diseases. Grandma endured. The cemetery became a familiar gathering place for this family. Death was a common occurrence. Each of those laugh lines were being chiseled deeper with each loss. Her husband suffered a few strokes leaving him bedridden. Grandma became his caregiver, always giving him a kiss before a meal and giving words of comfort and encouragement. She would even hum a tune as she kept him company.

I spent weeks at my grandparents’ home in the summer and am reminded of the static crackling through the radio, screeching out some ancient songs of woe on the country music station. I guess you could call them the blues of the country. Grandma would sing along. The border collie who had become the family pet often joined her with howls of his own. The sounds would carry through the air and often prompted me outside. Isn’t it funny how some things stay in your memory bank for a lifetime?

Grandma didn’t have a great singing voice, but she sure could make a joyful noise. I wonder how God reacts to our cries for help. He tells us to pray without ceasing, but it must be a terrible noise at times. The cool thing is that He can hear each and every voice and He answers all of them in His own time and way.

With Mother’s Day coming soon, I think of this woman who shared in my upbringing. She was one of those rocks that lead others to the future. Through her example of steadfastness, courage, perseverance and patience, I’ve learned so many everyday lessons for living, including singing until the cows come home.

Lamentations 3:55-57 ESV “I called on your name, O LORD, from the depths of the pit; you heard my plea, ‘Do not close your ear to my cry for help!’