Persevering Paige

Hello, 

Most of you know me, some of you may not. I am Ann’s oldest grandchild, Paige. I thought about beginning with a funny story. There are so many. Upon reflection, though, many of the stories I would tell are not appropriate for this setting. So, I digress.

My Grammy was a firecracker, an energizer bunny with a Boston accent.  She was a dedicated woman, in fact, her dedication was something to marvel at. She was dedicated fully to her faith, her family, and…cigarettes. Her dedication to her faith is inspirational, but really, so is her dedication to smoking if you really think about it. 

My Grammy loved, with every ounce of her being. She loved everyone, no matter how far they had strayed or if they reciprocated her love. The best example I can think of is one of Grammy’s last endeavors for her grandchildren. She loved to knit. She made all 8 of her grandchildren a blanket for their first child, with a book, and a note, so that even if she didn’t make it to physically see their arrival, her great-grandchildren would have a piece of her. She did this for all of us, no matter how close we were to her. 

She even loved those who were no longer here, making sure they were never forgotten and always a part of our Earthly family. She always had flowers in the trunk of her car to clean up my mother’s and grandfather’s graves.

She was the matriarch. Our healer. The one who always had the answers. She was quite truthfully the first person in my life to fully embody Jesus’s love for me on Earth. She loved unconditionally and hard. 

No matter how amazing she was, she would never take credit for it. She would often say, “Oh, Paige, it’s just you. You are so strong. I am just here to help you.” Or, “It’s the foundation your parents gave you. I’m just holding up my promise to them.” Or, “It’s our good Lord. He is faithful.” It was never her, in her eyes. Even though it was her. So many times. 

My grandmother was the first person I would call if I was bored, scared, sad, confused, lonely, heartbroken, happy, or a multitude of things combined. I know my family would agree with me. 

My grandmother held my hand when I was 7 years old reading a prayer at my father’s funeral in this same church. She was the person I looked out to while reading my mother’s words of remembrance at this same podium when I was freshly fourteen. And, after I lost my best friend at 18, she was the person constantly reminding me that we will always be best friends and our friendship will last forever. 

She was the pillar of strength for our family after losing Uncle Kevin so tragically. 

She was my biggest cheerleader, always making sure my car was full of gas, my house full of food, my things, neat and organized, that I knew about any rainstorms or bad weather coming in. I think those are some of the ways we can honor her.

Mrs. Flemming, my best friend’s mom, wrote to me, “Grammy was small in stature but stands as a giant among my heroes. She was irreplaceable and unrepeatable.”

She was the one who would have helped me through motherhood, held me as I cry from joy that I have a child, cooked and cleaned while my eyes were weary, and answered any questions I have about why my baby is doing this or that.

I am aware that had I not lost my mom at such a young age, my Grammy and I’s relationship would have looked different. We would have been close but not nearly as close as we were. I was a placeholder for my mom in a lot of ways, just like she was. We bonded over that. 

Valiant is an adjective that means, “very brave or determined, especially when things seem hard or hopeless.” 

William Shakespeare once wrote, “Cowards die many times before their deaths, the valiant never tastes of death but once.”

Grammy struggled most of her life and probably felt dead in a lot of ways after the death of her husband and daughter in the same year. She didn’t die until her last breath, she lived a life that was full and meaningful. She taught us how to make a beautiful life amidst the tears. 

Grammy was not ready to die. She didn’t want to. She had another ten years in her. If it hadn’t been for the word I will not say, she would have lived into her nineties and met my first child. 

The last two things that she kept emphasizing over and over during the last few days she could speak, were to keep my chin up and that she was proud of me. There are a few points of symbolism that I want to point out quickly before I go. The first is that today is the first official day of fall. F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote, “Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.” I encourage our family to lean into this season while the Earth joins us in letting go and starting anew, preparing for the cold ahead. The second is that Grammy loved butterflies. Something about monarch butterflies came across my social media which prompted further research. Monarch butterflies began their southward migration in late August, but their peak migration across the US takes place in mid-September, right around the time of Grammy’s passing.

To my family, I would say that Grammy gave us all she had. Though she had even more to offer, she has handed us the wand full of her magic. Let us run, skip. Like monarch butterflies in the wind. Let us fly.