My tonsils, strong-willed enough to deserve names, are now (un)affectionately referred to as Cheech and Chong.

When we arrived at my grandma’s house Sunday morning, I realized I forgot my sweater at the hotel. I’m always cold in air-conditioning. “Go get a sweater from my room,” Gram said. Just like old times, I wore a hug from Gram all day.

After a while, she said she was tired. She got herself comfy on the couch. With her favorite daytime television shows providing easy-listening background noise, she nodded off. We ran out to do some errands.

When we got home a few hours later, Gram was still asleep. I checked on her a few times as we unpacked bags, making sure her chest was rising and falling.

When I came into the living room to check again, she started to open her eyes. “Gram?” She winced a bit and reached out her hand. I sat next to her on the couch, holding her hand in mine and talking to her. Her eyes were open, but she wasn’t looking at me. She was looking past me, through me.

Gram mumbled something. I think it was in Italian; I wish I knew what she said. She squeezed my hand. I knew what was happening. Her labored breathing and unfocused eyes seemed to make it evident.

I called my mom, and she gathered the family.

With all of us—her children and grandchildren—surrounding her, Gram was smothered in love. We held her, prayed over her, and thanked her. She mumbled again.

And exhaled one last time.

I held Gram tightly and told her I love her. Amid my sobs, all I could think was, “I wonder what he said to her. And I wonder what she was saying to him…”

Sitting around the dining room table, conversation flows as easily as the wine and espresso does. I tell Gram that Niel is taking me to Palermo, Sicily—her hometown—in October for our wedding anniversary. Her face lights up. Her eyes shine; her smile spreads slowly across her face. I wish I could see the slideshow of memories that seems to pass through her mind in that instant. “That trip will be so wonderful! I’m so glad you’re going.”

Naturally, Gram starts reminiscing about life in Palermo. She spent the first thirteen years of her life there (1913-1926) before emigrating to America. Life back then was simple but hard; they didn’t have much, but they were content. As a child, Gram walked a few blocks to the bakery at the end of each day with a pot full of beans or lentils. After the bakery closed, customers could bring in food to cook in the already-hot bread ovens. Gram describes the smell of the bakery, the long walk with the heavy pot (“Thankfully the baker would add the water to the pot, so it wasn’t that heavy.”), and how their food always tasted better cooked in the bakery.

I’ve never heard any of this before.

Gram switches gears and talks about Grandpa. He died when I was only three; the memories I have of him are really just memories of the pictures I’ve seen. They met on the bus; Gram dropped her handkerchief and he picked it up for her. She was forty years old when they met and married. The year of their thirtieth wedding anniversary, Grandpa died suddenly. Gram talks a lot about that day. “I can’t believe we went to Canada and he lost his life there.” Grandpa worked for the Brooklyn Navy Yard, which made him exempt from fighting in the war. He enlisted in the Marines anyway. He fought in the infamous Battle of Peleliu, where 1500 Marines (in his division) walked onto the island and only 300 walked off. Grandpa, of course, was one of them. He survived that, but not a weekend in Canada…

“He’s been waiting for me a long time,” Gram says. She looks lost in thought; she stares over our heads. “I wonder what he’ll say to me when he sees me. And I wonder what I’ll say to him.” She sits in silence as she ponders the unfolding scene. Her eyes well up with tears.

Mine do, too—I can’t help it.

“You better come down to Florida and say your goodbyes.” Even though Gram is ninety-five, those words felt like a punch in the gut. We booked tickets, not knowing what to expect when we arrived.

When I saw my grandma three months ago, she was the same as she’s always been. We spent over an hour walking around the grocery store, she made “black coffee” (espresso) old-fashioned style on the stove for her and Niel, she regaled us with stories (old and new), she laughed, and her beautiful smile never left her face.

Last week Gram was treated for extreme dehydration. The doctor told her that her kidneys and heart are beginning to fail; he said he could run some tests to find out what’s wrong with her heart. “I’m old, that’s what’s wrong.” She declined tests; she signed a Do Not Resuscitate order.

When we arrived on Saturday, Gram looked pallid. Pale. Fragile. She needs to use her walker to get around the house; she gets out of breath just talking. It hurts my heart to see her suddenly looking her age. “I never felt old,” she said, “until just a few weeks ago. Now I feel old.” Her ninety-five years caught up with her fast.

She rubbed her hands incessantly. “My fingers are cold, but inside they’re sizzling.” She showed us her swollen feet. “I’ve never had that happen before. After so many years, you’d think I’d have experienced everything by now. At least I’m still experiencing new things, even if it’s swollen feet.” Her attitude, despite her frailty and discomfort, is astounding.

Aside from giving birth to her sons, Gram has never been hospitalized.

That night she was feeling pretty down about suddenly feeling her age. Yet, she was so happy to see all of us. She still talked and laughed, same as always. When my dad teased her, like he usually does, she responded with her typical sarcastic, “Yeah…” She slapped Dad’s arm when he poked fun of her; she was in her element.

Gram said over and over again how wonderful it is to have us all together. Her happiness was visible in her face, in her eyes, in her smile.

She just realized that she is indeed ninety-five. But she’s also fully aware just how rich and full her ninety-five-year life actually is.

I’ve been asked why I don’t write much on my blog about our ministry and the work I do. So, whether you’ve been wondering or not, here’s the why behind the non-ministry-related Grit and Glory.

I write all the time for Thrive Africa. Since my husband and I pioneered it over ten years ago, I’ve written every email newsletter, penned each printed letter, hand wrote thousands of thank-you postcards, and typed a reply to every email that’s come in for me and Niel. I write the copy for all of our brochures, some of our discipleship curriculum, and a lot of our website. I receive and reply to about 300 ministry emails a week. I edit every large web and print project that goes out from our ministry.

I love to write.

But when the only writing I do is writing I have to do, I tend not to love it as much.

So when I started blogging (back in 2005!), my intention right off the bat was to have a personal writing outlet. The purpose of Grit and Glory was to use my creativity and writing to share about my life, rather than my ministry. Of course it still represents Thrive Africa in some ways, because I do. And of course tidbits about the ministry come through in my writings. But I approach it very differently than I would if I used this blog as an outlet for sharing updates about our mission work.

I save that for another site.

I co-author our ministry Field Blog where we write about what’s actually happening at Thrive. (You can see the author of each post under the post title.) If you’re interested in hearing more about what God’s doing in South Africa, check out the Field Blog. It’s updated three or four times a week—even when I’m silent on here—complete with pictures and sometimes even videos.

All that to say—I really am a missionary, even though you don’t read much on here about the ministry work we’re doing. I guess you’ll have to read both of my blogs to get a fuller picture of who I am!

Guess what I love most about this ad.

(If you want a better look, click on the picture. It’ll open up nice and big for you.)

Go.

This is my first post in a week. I was taking a bit of a hiatus, but was ready to post something again on Wednesday. And then, in an instant message chat, you had to go and challenge me to hold out until Friday. “It’ll be a record,” you said.

I think you really wanted me to wait so that my return post would be written to you (since I’m dedicating Four-Minute Fridays to you while we’re apart). Either way, I sighed at your suggestion. And decided to take you up on it.

With you being known in internet-land as the Anti-Blogger, and then cheering my absence from the blogosphere for seven whole days, I wonder what hope my future in blogging really has.

You should try it. You might like it. You know what they say: The family that blogs together, stays together. Or something like that.

Someone sent me this picture of you from last week. It makes me smile still. You’re so sexy, you know that?

Dang, I miss you. Oh—Nina Panina says hi!

Done.

Go.

Okay, so you know the $5 Old Navy flag tees that we’ve gotten every year since 1998? Yeah, I know you know them, since you have a shelf full of them in your closet.

I always have to think way ahead of time to order them online or send mom to the store for me, and then get them shipped out to Africa. But I always do it because… I don’t really know why. It’s more about the tradition and sentiment than it is about the shirts. But… I do it. And I love it. And you smile. And graciously wear the shirts. I don’t really know how much you actually enjoy this tradition of ours, but you sport ‘em well. I’m imagining that you’re even wearing one right now in honor of the Fourth of July.

Well…

Umm…

I have to tell you something.

There will be no 2008 flag tees for us. GASP!

This year—my first time in America over this patriotic time in ages—I forgot all about it. I didn’t order any online; I didn’t buy some in any of the Old Navys I’ve had the privilege of walking by these past few months. Nope. I never thought of it at all.

Until yesterday.

A quick check online and at the nearby store brought a crushing blow. Sold out.

So… The tradition has ended. No more flag tees.

I hang my head in shame.

Done.

I have so much to do, but don’t feel like doing any of it. I’m bored, which makes me want to snack. I open the fridge; I peer in the pantry. I shut both doors empty-handed. I go upstairs and look out the window. I sit down with my new book and read only three pages.

“I’m antsy,” I announce, to no in particular. Mom hears me. “Why don’t you go for a walk?”

I should. Part of me wants to. But mostly I want to do nothing. I’d enjoy the end-result of the walk, but not the process of it. I mull this over and walk to my room. I plop down on the bed.

I watch the ceiling fan a while and then gaze out the open window. The curtain sways ever-so-softly from the breeze of both.

I look around the room at my piles and lists, fully aware of my pressing “to do”s. “Not today,” I almost say out loud. Please not today.

Is this lack of discipline or is this a much-needed rest? When is nothing laziness and when is nothing healthy?

My head hurts from all this thinking. If I’m gonna do nothing, that means no analyzing my nothing either.

I wish you were here to do nothing with.

The first dialogue of my day:

Big-brother Mike: No matter how bad a day you’re having, after watching just a few minutes of Jerry Springer you’ll feel instantly better about yourself.

::Laughter::

Mom: I don’t understand why he would even have a show like that?

Me: Who? Springer?

Mom: Yes. He is such a wonderful man.

::MUCH laughter from me and Mike::

Mom: What?!  He is!