"My grandmother passed away a few years ago after a long battle with cancer. Even as her health deteriorated, she never lost her spirit. She'd still get excited about whether the Pittsburgh Steelers might finally have a decent season after Ben Roethlisberger's retirement. She'd debate the Pirates' chances with the kind of passionate optimism that only comes from decades of loyal disappointment."
"But what I remember most are the afternoons she'd spend napping in her favorite chair with my son curled up against her. He'd drift off clutching some random object, like a wooden spoon or random toy from my parent's basement. She'd just smile and close her eyes too. Even when she was tired, even when the treatments were wearing her down, she found joy in those stolen moments."
"In her final years, she lived with my parents, but she brought her faith with her. Her rosary beads found new homes on nightstands and windowsills. Her worn Bible sat open on the end table, bookmarked with a picture of her husband. The little curio cabinet filled with angels followed her too, a portable shrine to stubborn hope. Wherever she was, the air around her carried that same indefinable quality that I later realized was simply peace."
Grandmother faced a long battle with cancer yet maintained spirit, optimism about local sports, and small pleasures. She treasured afternoons napping with her grandson, finding joy even during treatment. She carried tangible expressions of faith—rosary beads, a worn Bible, and a curio of angels—that filled her surroundings with a palpable peace. She lived faith quietly, believing in prayer, miracles, second chances, and small comforts like Diet Pepsi and the Steelers. After her death, grief coexisted with an unexpected stability rooted in the steady foundation she built through daily presence and practiced faith.
Read at Tiny Buddha
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