Her love was freely given in weekly piano lessons and music parties, summer days at her neighborhood pool followed by root-beer floats, and cousin sleepovers with her famous chocolate chip pancakes in the mornings. She made our birthdays so special when she helped us bake and decorate our very own birthday cakes. My favorite place to be was cuddled up in her bed while she read me my mom’s childhood stories. When I was homesick, I’d snuggle close, and her rhythmic breathing would lull me to sleep.
I knew I was loved when I received handwritten cards with her cursive writing crammed into blank spaces with an arrow at the bottom, directing me to continue reading on the back. Newspaper clippings were often enclosed, an article that made her think of me “just because.” I knew I was loved when she called me by my childhood nickname well into adulthood and said I would always be her Valentine girl.
Her love was generously given in the hours it took to prepare our Thanksgiving feasts with her signature recipes and homemade pies. After our long drive across the state, it was her warm hug that welcomed us. The smell of her homemade cooking lured us to the oversized dining room table, where we ate until we were more than full, unbuttoning pants to make room for dessert. The love and laughter that filled my dad’s childhood home again became a nostalgic part of my childhood Thanksgiving memories.
I knew I was loved when I came home from school and she was waiting to chat at the kitchen table. As I ate my snack, she’d ask me questions about school and the dance team. She always listened intently, nodding and smiling as if I were the reason they traveled seven hours every month rather than for my granddad’s medical appointments. She made our life transitions even more special with her thoughtfully crafted handmade quilts to celebrate our graduations, marriages, and new babies.
Her love was lavishly given in expensive clothing and American Girl dolls. We always looked forward to our visits to their lake house, where she prepared fancy table settings with catered meals. We may not have been related by blood, but she was my grandmother nonetheless. She loved my granddad, so I loved her. Even though she never expressed her love openly, I knew she cared because gift-giving was her specialty, and she gave to us generously.
Her love is patient, gentle, and intentionally thoughtful. I watch as genuine joy spreads across her face while she plays along with my 8-year-old son’s goofy make-believe stories. She’s always along for whatever crazy ride her animated grandchild makes up. Their laughter fills the room as their Matchbox cars collide, even more so when they pause for a tickle war. She takes the time to hunt down his every gift request and delights in his excitement as he opens it. He’s her pride and joy, much like my husband was and still is to this day. Her one and only child has a child of his own, and her heart is full.
Her love is playful, encouraging, and intentionally joyful. I watch her delight in my baby boy as he excitedly waddles toward her. Her face lights up when he babbles his stories, and she oohs and ahhs with him as he makes discoveries. As he gets older, her love only grows. With nine grandkids, she’s the gatherer of family and the builder of fun. She keeps her own toy box, board games, and children’s books to entertain the whole crew. She recreates special memories from my childhood while making new ones too. It’s a love like no other. Familiar, yet altogether different. I’ve received her love in the form of a mom, but to experience it again through the eyes of my son is both nostalgic and distinctly unique.
It’s the way it is with a grandma. She’s still the same person, but her love isn’t rushed or hurried this time. She’s more present, living in the moment. She carries an awareness of the fragility of time, and her grandkids benefit from it.
She brings her own flair to the title “Grandma.” Maybe she’s a Nana, Mimi, Grammy, or Memaw. Maybe she’s simply Grandma, like my grandmothers were to me. Whatever name she goes by, a grandma brings something special as the matriarch of the family. She offers her gifts, wisdom, and uniquely beautiful ways of giving love to her grandkids.
I am better for having known the love of my grandmothers. My son is better for having the love of his Gimi and Nana. I can only hope that one day I may become a grandma myself. Then I can pass down memories of love to my own grandkids just as it was so generously passed down to me.
This article was originally published by Her View From Home.
The Living Loved Movement 
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