Her name was Lucille M. Corell – known far and wide as Grandma Lucy. She was the kindest, most faith-filled person I've ever known. With a sparkle in her eye and a ready smile, she was small in stature, but what she lacked in height she more than made up for in attitude.
Grandma
Lucy was one of God’s soldiers – and proud of it. She liked to talk in general,
but she loved to talk specifically about
God, her faith – and your faith. There were no strangers in her world, just
friends she hadn't yet met. If you were breathing and within eyesight, you were
going to get know Grandma Lucy.
Grandma
Lucy also loved to cook and bake. That’s how she showed her love. When I was
stationed overseas she sent me regular shipments of what my buddies all agreed
were “the best damn molasses cookies ever made!” She was famous for her
cookies. A couple of my friends actually sent her thank you notes for sending me cookies!
Sadly,
Grandma Lucy died a little over three years ago.
I
think of her daily – and especially at this time of year. She loved the rebirth
that comes with springtime. To her, springtime meant the snow would finally
melt, the songbirds would return and our journey on this earth would continue,
as long as the Good Lord willed.
Grandma
had a hotline to God. She was a devout Christian who prayed for each and every
one of her seven children, 16 grandchildren and 19 great-grandchildren each and
every day. She’d sit quietly every morning in her small kitchen and share her
thoughts and concerns with God.
We
knew that, and took comfort in it. And she knew that we knew. That’s why on
those rare occasions when she’d remind me over the phone, “James, I’m praying
for you,” I understood that was really Grandma-Lucy code for “James, you’re
making bad choices and you need to get back on the straight and narrow – now!”
Subtlety.
A lost art.
It
was 5 a.m., Wednesday, Nov. 28, 1984. Assembled in Grandma’s kitchen were
Grandma, my parents, Aunt Christine and me. Even with the early hour, we were
unusually quiet. The only sounds were the tick-tock of the wall clock and the incessant
gurgling of her old-school coffee percolator. A heavy cloak of sadness covered
the room – for two reasons.
The
first reason was the love of Grandma’s life – my Grandpa Arnold Corell – had
died just three days earlier. They’d been in love since she was 16. She was
crushed.
Grandpa
died on Sunday night. The funeral customarily would have been held the
following Wednesday, but things were moved up a day to accommodate me. Just 17 hours earlier I was wearing my dress-blue Air Force uniform as we pallbearers
carried Grandpa to his last resting place in a little rural cemetery near
Carpenter, Iowa. It was tough to say goodbye.
I
was wearing that same uniform as I stood in Grandma’s kitchen at 5 o’clock the
next morning, because of reason No. 2.
I’d
been home on leave following basic training and military technical school. In just
a few minutes my parents would drive me across the state to the Des Moines
International Airport. I had to fly to Germany to begin my first assignment.
Grandma
Lucy and I were very close. I was her eldest grandchild. She was my spiritual
rock, my inspiration. Now we had to say goodbye. As far as we knew I might not
return for four years.
It
was a difficult moment for Grandma and me. After a prayer and a long pause she
reached across the table and handed me an envelope. Inside was a card with a
handwritten note. The card included a small clipping from Guideposts – the magazine seemingly every Christian grandmother
reads.
As
I read it she told me she understood the journey I was undertaking was very
important and it was something special I needed to do. And she said I needed
something to take with me to remind me of how to look at things. Especially
when things got hard and there were difficult choices to make. I could tell by
the look in her eyes she knew what she was talking about.
It
was one simple line. Twelve words I've quoted more times than I can count.
“Belief
is the acceptance of a map, faith is taking the journey.”
As
I look out the window I see robins walking in the snow. As usual, they jumped
the gun and arrived a couple weeks too early. It’s a reminder to me that life’s
a journey and things don’t always go the way you expect. Just like Grandma Lucy
taught me.
While
Grandma’s journey has now ended, mine continues. As much as I miss her, I take
heart. I have faith that she continues to watch over me every day, and that she
still has that hotline to God. But now instead of long-distance, it’s a local
call.
Thank
you Grandma. Happy springtime.
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Back row (l to r): Marilyn O'Connor, Christine Youngerman
Middle: Lucille Corell
Seated: James O'Connor
Nov. 28, 1984
