If the Lord were to bless me with grandchildren I would hope to be the grandma with a
stock pot of bone broth ready on the stovetop to be dished out to sick ones during fall and winter months. Every so often I get these visions of a small brick home, humbly kept and one-storied. The rugs would be vacuumed regularly, giving them a soft cozy look that makes you feel like you could take your blankets and pillows and make a fort underneath the table.
I would be a quiet woman, subdued by the storms of this life. My joy would be evident not by dancing in the kitchen, but in playing music softly and sending cards to the neighbors. We would have Jesus Time in the living room where we’d play and talk about our flannelgraph stories. They’d come with me to the herb gardens in my affordable back yard, where I’d show them how to weed and plant. The afghan rack would hang with blankets our children would recognize.
If they couldn’t make it home for the holidays, we’d catch up someday soon. Gifts can always be sent in a box, and I’d enjoy putting special holiday boxes together. The family at church would get one too. Dad and I would travel in a comfortable vehicle, realizing by now how converting a van into a traveling home was a fun idea, but not realistic. We would’ve never talked about that season in life he started calling me mom, when I noticed but apparently didn’t mind.