This earth is my sister: I love her daily grace, her silent daring, and how loved I am, how we admire this strength in each other, all that we have lost, all that we have suffered, all that we know: we are stunned by this beauty, and I do not forget: what she is to me, what I am to her.
Gramma died 25 years after she stopped mothering me.But she left me something special, and I hear it whenever the need occurs.A tune wafts in unexpectedly when I am kneading bread or hanging laundry on the line.The opening phrase of an oldhymn bursts from my mouth:
"Are ye able," I suddenly sing out.
"To believe that Spirit triumphs," I can hear Gramma picking up the next line.The verses poses a great question about faith, but I am thinking about what Gramma gave me.
"Lillian," I answer, "thank you for my voice."