A Quiet Love: Remembering My Grandma

Some people love with fireworks—big, loud, impossible to miss. My grandma wasn’t like that. Her love was a soft glow, like candlelight in a dark room, quiet but so warm you couldn’t help but feel it. It was steady, unshakable, woven into every moment she spent with me. She believed in prayer more than anything else, and when I was lost, scared, or just wandering through life’s uncertainties, I could feel her prayers holding me together, like invisible threads stitching my heart back when it frayed.

Grandma was my first everything. My first home, my first safe place, my first glimpse of what love could be. Before I was even born, she was there, caring for me while I was still growing in my mom’s womb. She stayed with me until I was three, her gentle hands and soft voice my earliest memories. When she had to leave after those early years, I cried—not just a child’s tantrum, but a deep, aching sob, because even at that age, I knew I was losing something sacred. A love like hers is once-in-a-lifetime, and my heart knew it before my mind could understand.

But she never stayed away for long. Her visits were my own personal holidays, moments I’d count down to with a racing heart. I’d see her coming and sprint into her arms, burying myself in her embrace, her warmth like a blanket I never wanted to leave. One of my clearest memories is curling up beside her at night, her steady breathing like a lullaby. Those moments were safety itself—her presence chased away every shadow, every fear. She’d whisper stories of faith, of courage, of a God who loved me, and I’d fall asleep feeling like I was cradled by the universe itself.

She’d tell me Bible stories before bed, her voice soft but sure. I’ve forgotten most of the words, but the feeling? That’s etched into my soul. It was like she was handing me a piece of something eternal, something good, something that said I belonged. And her hugs—oh, her hugs were magic. They could heal anything—a scraped knee, a broken heart, a day that felt too heavy. One hug from her, and the world felt right again.

There’s this memory that still dances in my mind, so vivid it makes my heart ache and smile at the same time. When I was little, I’d hop on my bicycle and zoom ahead, giggling as I shouted, “Chase me, Grandma!” And she would—every single time. Slippers flapping, arms waving, her laughter trailing behind her, she’d run after me with all her might. She knew she couldn’t catch me, but she ran anyway, her love spilling out in every step. That’s who she was: someone who gave her all, no matter how impossible the odds, just to see me happy. I think she lived her whole life that way, chasing after love with a heart wide open.

As I grew up, her love stayed the same—fierce, quiet, constant. She’d ask how I was, really ask, her eyes searching mine like she could see every worry I carried. “I’m praying for you,” she’d say, and those words were a lifeline, a reminder that I was never alone. When I won, she celebrated like I’d hung the stars. When I fell, she was the first to kneel beside me, her voice steady, telling me I was stronger than I knew.

But there’s a wound that hasn’t healed, and maybe it never will. I didn’t get to say goodbye. Not a phone call, not a final word. Life had swept me too far away—geographically, emotionally—and I wasn’t there when she needed me most. It’s a regret that sits heavy, like a stone in my chest. Weeks before she passed, I felt something—a tightness, a quiet ache, like my soul was trying to warn me. The day she left this world, it was like a part of me slipped away with her, leaving a hollow I’m still learning to live with.

I prayed I’d see her in a dream, and I did. But she wasn’t smiling, and that shattered me. Her face was quiet, almost stern, and for a while, I carried that image like a weight. But now, I think I understand. Maybe it was her way of saying goodbye, or maybe she was telling me, “Don’t stop. Keep going. Live.” I hold onto that, even when it hurts.

Grief is love with nowhere to go, but I’ve found a place for it. It lives in my voice when I tell her stories, in the way I try to love others with the same selfless heart she showed me. It’s in the prayers I whisper when the world feels too big, in the small acts of kindness I offer, hoping they carry a fraction of her light. I miss her—God, I miss her—every single day. But she’s not gone, not really. She’s in the way I live, the way I love, the way I keep her close by carrying her lessons forward.

If you’re reading this and your grandma is still here, please—hug her. Call her. Tell her you love her, not just once but over and over. Sit with her, listen to her stories, hold her hand. These moments, the ones that feel so ordinary, are the threads that weave a life of love. They’re what make a heart whole.