Earlier this month, my children lost their first grandparent. They have been truly blessed to have all four grandparents in their lives into their mid- to late-twenties. Grandma Carol had a long battle with illness which interfered with her being an active Grandma for her six grandchildren in the last few years. But, oh what a grandma she was. Those six kids adored Grandma, and she showered them with love, especially at Christmas. That was her time. I’m sure the grandkids fondest memories of Grandma Carol revolve around their time together at Christmas when she turned her home into a welcoming, warm Christmas wonderland.

We had our first snow this last week here in Minnesota. And then it got cold. As I get older, I am less tolerant of the cold, and don’t enjoy playing in the snow like I once did. Yet, the quiet of a winter home, with new snow blanketing the world outside, maybe covering our sins and transgressions at least for a while, brings calm, peace, and even spurs on creativity for me. This warm house, the softness of the snow outside, dampening sounds, wraps me up like a warm blanket. Like a grandma hugging a grandchild on Christmas morning.

After Carol’s service, my wife and I were talking about what we might like at our own services. I mentioned the song “Instrument” by Eliza Gilkyson as a song I’d like at my service. I did a Google search to find the lyrics for her to read, and up first on my phone came this recording I did of my daughter singing the song in June of 2020 when we were in the peak of Covid. What a wonderful little gift from the internet to drop this recording I’d forgotten about and wrap its arms around me like a grandma hug.

Oh hands of time that steal my days
And turn my gaze towards night
Against your final backdrop plays
The story of my life

Your fractured vessel I’ve become
My broken heart of tin
A grain of sand in rain and sun
At the mercy of the wind

At the mercy of the wind. Oh, how we want to control everything in our lives. Folly. We’re so interconnected with each other, family, friends, strangers even; we’re connected with the place where we live, the air we breathe, the water we drink, the sounds of the snow, the fungus in the soil connecting the trees, the wind blowing the leaves, the butterflies and the bees.

I’m your unworthy instrument
Come strike my final tone
And blow your horn magnificent
Through the hollows of my bones

I’ll never be your chosen one
To rise above the din
For all the good I could have done
And all I’ve never been

For all the good I could have done. Oof. That line lands hard. The work is never done, though I’m often not even sure what that work is. Kaitlin Curtice writes in Living Resistance, “Who are you at the deep center of yourself? What do you embody in this lifetime?” For me, it’s kindness. Being a calming center of kindness for others. Oh boy, do I have work to do in that area. I am certainly an unworthy instrument, though I might disagree here with Eliza. I am chosen. We all are. The Earth chooses us, gifts us with our life, the life of all around us, loves us and wraps us in her arms like warm grandma hugs.