It's a Gift

Love is a gift, not a reward.

Hardly a day goes by that my maternal grandmother doesn’t come to mind. She’s been gone a while now. And yet I clearly remember coming home one night from a philosophy lecture to hear the news that she had died unexpectedly. I slumped in a chair and stared into space for a long time.

Marie was her name. She stood about five feet tall and wore her long white hair long straight down her back. German phrases sometimes seeped into her heavily-accented English. My mother and I lived with her and my grandfather during my toddler years and again through Middle and High School.

Never flashy or overtly expressive, her love for me was still warm and unwavering. It may seem cold to you, but it never bothered me that she didn’t say, “I love you,” or give me hugs. 

Instead, she always kept Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls in the pantry. They were my favorite. When Grandpa cut the ham for supper, she would remind him to trim the fat off my piece. For no particular reason, she frequently smiled at me wit…