Tangible

Every morning, blurry eyed and just shy of surly, one or the other of my boys climbs up on Grandpa's old swivel bar stool for breakfast at the kitchen island.

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.