In the few days proceeding to Easter (of this year), I had spent a few days helping my grandmother prepare and set up for Easter. We baked, we baked and then we just baked some more. We were ready to go somewhere on Wednesday when we received an unexpected call from her neighbor and friend, even someone I've grown close to in the past couple of years. She was in the hospital. She asked us to pick up a few items from her home. Mostly holy cards of Saints, because she wanted to pass them out to the nurses. She told us if that is the only way she could evangelize, then let it be. I thought that was so beautiful. To me, I saw her as being courageous in her moment of weakness and in her moment of humility, she saw an opportunity to give hope to others. At least to try.
While visiting her in the hospital, she told me that she bought me a whole set of fancy plates, mugs, saucers, etc. because it had my name on the back of it. She thought of me and couldn't pass it up. I thanked her and thought of how kind and generous she was. I also thought about the summer where I helped her set up her garden out on the deck. I maneuvered heavy cement blocks and placed the Sacred Heart of Jesus on top and another set of blocks where the Blessed Mother and angels stood. I used a screwdriver to drill in the trellis as a backdrop, (so my handyman boyfriend should be proud I know how to use a screwdriver), and set up the plants to her liking.
I felt that was her way of thanking me. The thing is, she told me, the plates are in the cabinet above the fridge. With boxes in tow, my grandmother and I gingerly took down the plates. She discussed that I could use them on special occasions for a large crowd and marveled at the bowls and how perfect they would be for ice cream and even soup. So, naturally, I imagined these scenarios. My own home and family to share these plates that would create newer memories, as I would tell them about my friend, Roberta.
Good Friday came, and it drizzled in the morning and as the day went on it began to clear. We were driving in the car on our way to Mass as I was pondering on the beauty around me and what heaven is like. Does heaven have woods to walk through? Are there rivers and streams? As I wondered, I suddenly began to smell a strong scent of incense. I asked if either one of my grandparents smelled it, but they couldn't. For me, the scent was powerful, yet it brought an overwhelming sense of peace, I couldn't help but cry. These weren't tears of sadness. These were tears of joy and in that moment I felt a sense of renewal. My grandmother told me Jesus is with me. And I thought, wow, He chose me. He chose to spend time with me in the car driving as I was going to see Him. For twenty minutes he graced me with his sweet presence, but I know He is always with me. Always with us.
