Margaret Jean Cross Gibson, my Grandmother (January 17, 1926 – October 30, 2017)

My best memories of Grandma are connected with the old, Victorian home she and Grandpa owned in small town Alberta.  I remember the flowers she planted around the house, the bird feeder in the back yard, the turned wooden banister and creaking wooden steps that led to the second floor, the dark, scary basement filled with jars of canned peaches and pickles, and the big ole freezer that usually held an ice cream pail full of oatmeal cookies.  My grandmother was always a welcoming and compassionate presence in my life.

In one of the last real conversations I had with my grandmother, she reminisced about the day victory was declared in Europe.  She was in the yard, she said, when they heard the news.  The hired hand picked her up and hugged her!  She was only about 18 at the time.  It was the very best kind of good news, like the word of God, which, though we like flowers fade away, stands forever.

Even to your old age I am he (ego eimi),
and to gray hairs I will carry you.
I have made, and I will bear;
I will carry and will save. (Is 46:4)

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