for Omie

It’s been four weeks since I lost my grandmother, Eva Mae Holsonback, Omie. It’s been difficult to make sense of this flurry of emotion, of grief and sadness and peace and that I’ve felt in the past month. It’s tough to grieve from three thousand miles away, but easy to channel that energy into holidays and decorating and online shopping and trying to figure out the changing of the seasons as I change with them.

But two nights ago, I found a couple voicemails from Omie from the past year, and these feelings came flooding back. They were fifteen seconds altogether, but they were the Omie I want to (and will) remember forever—sweet and thankful and calling just because I brought over a cupcake or got her answering machine earlier in the day. They were her endearing southern drawl, her singsong voice, her not wanting to disrupt my day (even though nothing she did ever could), her deep and tangible love for me, even far away. Omie was proud of me even when I wasn’t, she was so loving, she was a reminder of heavenly faithfulness and care even in the hard times, even on earth. No one I’ve ever met could say a bad thing about my Omie, and she never did about anyone. I know that in this waiting and in the stillness and sometimes melancholy, Omie would only want me to find joy. Her life was humble, but never small—it was full of peace and joy and love for her family and every person she met.

Whenever I left Omie’s house and said I’d be back soon, she would always say, “I’ll be waiting for you,” and I know she is now, so full of joy. Until then, I’ll be striving for what Omie gave—that same kindness, peace and pure love for everyone around me. I’ll try to be content in the changing of the seasons, in the leaves falling and growing back different but new and beautiful.