Various green and growing things sprout contentedly from an assortment of used-to-be-Grandma-and-Grandpa's metal bowls.
A bejeweled in blue broach that Grandma used to wear is propped up against a plant pot on a corner shelf.
On Monday I made green bean soup in her old stock pot.
Grief sneaks up on us. It comes at awkward moments; it's drawn to the surface of our well mastered emotions by an unexpected kindness, a lingering hand, an injustice, a deferred hope. The cold, hard weight of a cooking pot becomes a connection to something long-ago, something eternal.
A reminder of what was, what can be.
An invitation to learn from ones who've gone before ~ to employ their strengths and learn from their been-there example.
So, first we mourn. Then we grow. We learn. We do them proud in our determination to live well, justly, humbly, and full of Faith.
Grandma's hand dipped a spoon deep into some savory soup or other.
In that pot.
One hand gripping a side handle, the other firmly coaxing a meal into existence.
She lived well. She loved better. She prayed most.
She will be missed.