My memories of Grandma Vaupel are like a patchwork quilt. So many different colors and textures fill the shape and substance of her 98 years of life.
Pot holders, Christmas stockings, doilies, and tea towels. To look around my house is to see little evidences of her love woven into countless hand-made gifts. Each of our children has cherished (almost to pieces) the soft, warm blankets that Grandma crocheted. I don’t go a day without using a towel she embroidered. And it’s not just my house. Children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, neighbors, and friends have been recipients of her gifts. Military laboring overseas have received her hand-knit little Christmas stockings. Countless homes have been brightened by her personal touch of love.
Gardening, canning, picking raspberries, freezing corn. Such warm childhood memories of Grandma’s industrious efforts to gather, prepare, and provide. I remember her rubber-banded bread bags, shielding her shoes from ankle-deep mud, as she ventured into the woods to hunt for morel mushrooms. When I got a little bigger, I gained my own spot at her basement tables with a knife and huge bowl of corn on the cob to trim and scrape and bag, for winter enjoyment.
Grandma was the epitome of a fit helper for Grandpa on the farm. Up before dawn, helping with chores, fixing a hearty breakfast, cleaning the kitchen to get it ready for a full spread at lunch. Always with a cheerful smile, a worn apron, capable hands.
Grandma could feed chickens, calves, and all the people who could cram into her cozy kitchen. And who overflowed into the living room. Of all the memories I have of Grandma, the majority involve large quantities of delicious, comforting food. It’s not just that Grandma made the world’s best chocolate chip cookies, butterhorn rolls, and pies. It’s more that every dish and pan, every bowl and pot that stacked in never-ending piles at the end of a meal held the stamp of her love. I think that’s a legacy that she passed on to her daughters, and probably has trickled down to many of her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Thanksgiving dinners, Christmas, Easter, and birthday celebrations were made special because love flavored the abundant and delicious spread of food.
That is the thread that runs through most every piece of the lovely patchwork quilt of memories I have of Grandma. She knew and received the love of Jesus for redeemed sinners. And she overflowed with that love. Love for family. Love for neighbors. Love for church. Love for the Lord.
The last time I got to hold her strong, soft, wrinkled hand and look in her warm eyes, just a couple days before she finished this earthly course, I leaned close, kissed her cheek, and said, “I love you, Grandma, and the Lord loves you.” And she gave her sweet, meaningful wink, as though to say, “I know, I love you, and I’m glad to be going home to Jesus.”
