Grandma's Socks

Her tender legs and feet lay limp, too weak to lift them.  I reach my hand under her left leg and gently lift it off the white sheet of the firm hospital bed.  My sweet Grandma looks at me with a smile, deep in thought yet the words are distant from her mouth.  The stroke has stolen then, but she communicates clearly without words.

Minutes before this scene, I had walked into the stark room feeling overwhelmed. As the stories and snapshots of me and my Grandma ran through my mind like an old reel, salty tears stained my cheeks.  I was trying so hard to be strong, but, alas, I realized I didn't need to be.  I could just be me...exactly what my amazing Grandma had taught and showed me. I composed myself after a bit and moved closer.  I gave her a tender hug and sat down next to her frail body.  This beautiful woman who had taken care of me and countless others through her glorious 90 years of life is now under the care of many people.

As her left leg is held in the air by my hand, I carefully take off her brown hospital sock and see the most beautiful sight: A foot creased with age and lines that tell me stories.  Stories of where these feet have trod...through frozen snow, teeming jungle, Amazon waters, homes of people who needed the hope of Jesus, bustling streets of Belem and Sao Paolo, Osoyoos roads walking arm-in-arm with a awkward teenager trying to figure out life, in her kitchen where (in my eyes) magic happened, skating rinks to cheer me on, and on and on and on.  I slip on her new red, soft socks over her toes, her foot, her heel and up to her ankles.  I rub her calf and the glamorous wrinkles that give me so much history.  I set the left foot down, pick up the right, and start over again.

I am overcome by gratefulness at the gift of this beautiful woman and all she means to me, and a joy-filled tear runs down the side of my face.  I look up to see Grandma smiling, and I smile back.  In an obscure, unforeseen way, this is the meaning of joy.