For those of you who follow me on Instagram, this is old news…
A week and a half ago, John Robert, Asher, Lila, my brother and I all set out on an adventure. We drove 6 hours west to celebrate my grandmother’s 91st birthday. Little did I know, that along the way, Asher’s slight cough would foretell of a difficult week yet to come. By that evening Asher was running a fever, two days later John Robert caught that same fever and for over a week straight I didn’t sleep through the night once.
Even so, the trip was one I wouldn’t have wanted to miss. I caught up with my Aunt and Uncle who live in the suburbs of Atlanta and watched my grandma forget over and over again that it was her birthday. I love this grandma of mine. She’s witty, bold, strong, honest and selfless. She’s the true renaissance woman who can do it all.
During WWII, she met my grandfather while working in a factory creating parts for the Air Force’s aircrafts. (You can read a little more about their love story here.) Even though he didn’t belong to her faith, she knew from the beginning that he would join her (and he did). She battled infertility and adopted 3 children. As soon as she brought home her third child, she found out she was pregnant with her fourth. She was knee-deep in babies, as she likes to say. She raised her family on a farm during the hard days. The days before large equipment made farming easier and more profitable.
She is strong, she was a pioneer in her own right and she is my grandmother. I am blessed to have known her and I like to think I’m a little bit like her. Out of the hundreds of photos I have of grandmother, this one is my favorite. She hates the sight of her hands, but I love them. They are soft, they have worked hard, they have held babies and have taken care of her home. And in this photo, they hold my sweet baby’s hand…just as they held mine and my mother’s before me.