I often think about what Heaven will be like, and have always imagined it to be centered around one place: my Grandparents house. I see Grandma there with her apron on, cooking at the stove and Grandpa, my sweet Dad and my Uncle Jarl sitting at her table, sipping coffee, smiling and ushering me in. The love and warmth and happiness there is indescribable, the feeling … enveloping. Outside are all the dogs, kitties and horses of my childhood, just waiting for me to come and say hello.
As a child, my Grandparents home sat less than a mile away. I rode my bike or my pony over to their farmyard and in I’d come, stinking of horses and fresh air and always, always I was welcomed. Grandma’s kitchen was everything that was good: scents of cinnamon, butter, sugar and jam lingered, even long after meals were cleared. Grandpa, curious and kind, was forever interested in my stories; Grandma, capable and whimsical, was also efficient and no-nonsense. Sometimes I got to spend the night there, and the feeling of slipping my bare legs under her starched white sheets lingers with me still.
I loved and was loved.
It’s those memories that I slip back to when my heart’s been heavy. But then I think about them, I remember the love that was given so freely, the hearts and doors that were always open, and the time that was shared. And when they come back to me, I believe.
Darla’s post inspired this one. Thank you, sweet friend.