Love Fed Me Meatloaf
(Note: Starting today, I am going to take Thursdays to go through the fruits of the spirit and tell you about people in my life who have helped me to understand them, in hopes that you may further see how such qualities manifest. I hope my illustrations of these people will do them justice and that they might touch your lives in a small semblance of how they have touched mine.)
I don't remember Love very well. I was only about 11 when she died; she was 95. There are many things that I will never know about Love. I never met her husband or knew her favorite color. I don't remember what kind of books she used to read or if she had any hobbies besides gardening.
But I do remember some very distinct things about Love. I remember the time she dropped meatloaf on the ground, picked it up, and served it to us-- cat hair and all. I remember the soft wrinkles of her face and the clarity of her eyes. I remember her snow globe that would play music when picked up, and how she didn't mind when I lifted it up for the hundredth time. I remember that although everything was changing as I grew up, Love was constant and dependable.
Every time I visited, Love would let me feed the fish in her pound, give me her old baby doll to play with, drag out the trampoline for me to jump on, and take me outside to watch the train pass, holding my hand in her own.
There are some things I am sure you already know about love. She was patient. She was kind. She did not envy or boast; she was not proud. She was not self-seeking or easily angered and kept no record of being wronged. She did not delight in evil, but rejoiced in the truth.
I remember Love as looking very frail. I remember the shake of her hands as she folded them in her lap and the slow, painful way she would stand at the end of a meal. But Love was not as fragile as she looked. She was a rock. She lived through the tornado, the fire, and the frustrations of everyday life and still always had a knowing smile on her face. She always protected and trusted, always hoped and persevered.
Love was not perfect, but she was made perfect by grace and extended the peace she had as a result to those around her. I will never make frozen fruit salad like Love or be able to weed the garden as perfectly as she did, but one day I still hope to be like her. In fact, I think we should all strive to be a bit more like Love. She was invested in others and focused on everything she did. She never complained and often said little. Love doesn't always need words, she often listened instead of spoke.
But she had within her a power beyond what I could have imagined. Love covers a multitude of sins. Love never fails. Love remains.
In Loving Memory of my Great Grandma Gladys.
I don't remember Love very well. I was only about 11 when she died; she was 95. There are many things that I will never know about Love. I never met her husband or knew her favorite color. I don't remember what kind of books she used to read or if she had any hobbies besides gardening.
But I do remember some very distinct things about Love. I remember the time she dropped meatloaf on the ground, picked it up, and served it to us-- cat hair and all. I remember the soft wrinkles of her face and the clarity of her eyes. I remember her snow globe that would play music when picked up, and how she didn't mind when I lifted it up for the hundredth time. I remember that although everything was changing as I grew up, Love was constant and dependable.
Every time I visited, Love would let me feed the fish in her pound, give me her old baby doll to play with, drag out the trampoline for me to jump on, and take me outside to watch the train pass, holding my hand in her own.
There are some things I am sure you already know about love. She was patient. She was kind. She did not envy or boast; she was not proud. She was not self-seeking or easily angered and kept no record of being wronged. She did not delight in evil, but rejoiced in the truth.
I remember Love as looking very frail. I remember the shake of her hands as she folded them in her lap and the slow, painful way she would stand at the end of a meal. But Love was not as fragile as she looked. She was a rock. She lived through the tornado, the fire, and the frustrations of everyday life and still always had a knowing smile on her face. She always protected and trusted, always hoped and persevered.
Love was not perfect, but she was made perfect by grace and extended the peace she had as a result to those around her. I will never make frozen fruit salad like Love or be able to weed the garden as perfectly as she did, but one day I still hope to be like her. In fact, I think we should all strive to be a bit more like Love. She was invested in others and focused on everything she did. She never complained and often said little. Love doesn't always need words, she often listened instead of spoke.
But she had within her a power beyond what I could have imagined. Love covers a multitude of sins. Love never fails. Love remains.
In Loving Memory of my Great Grandma Gladys.
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