Her last lent came before the Church’s calendar this year. So much suffering and waiting and suffering and waiting endlessly, it felt, until her final passion and crucifixion not on a cross but in a hospital bed.
And followed undoubtedly by a glorious resurrection. She was greeted–I am sure–greeted, kissed, and blessed by my other grandmother who, herself, has only just flown out of this heavy and dim veil into the perpetual light.
They did their work faithfully and quietly leaving no feast day for the masses. Intimate saints.
What grave joy I feel nursing my child, carrying on what they carried on from their mother’s mother. Mothering and mending and untiringly tending to the sacramental task of sculpting the eternal in tiny temporal flesh.