My Grandpa and Grandma in Downtown San Francisco, walking home just after they had sold their car to buy things they needed.
She loved Patsy Cline, Tony Bennett, Frank Sinatra and Joe Montana.
She loved living in San Francisco.
She loved dancing with my Grandpa in her kitchen.
She's my Grandma and she passed away late Saturday night.
After I got the call, all I could do was lay in my bed, clutch the phone and stare off into the darkness.
I couldn't cry. Not until my little sister called me at 2:00 a.m.
Then I felt a few tears run down the side of my face.
I'm not quite sure how to grieve yet, because I am truly happy for her.
She was in so much pain, hardly being able to breathe.
My Grandpa died almost 5 years ago and she's been so lonely for him.
They were married for 60 years. Sixty years!
I know she trusted Christ as her Savior, so to imagine her with Jesus, not in pain and with the love of her life makes me truly happy.
My Grandma was Italian and she made the best mostaccioli.
The first year Phil and I were married, she hosted Thanksgiving.
We had the usual antipasto--olives, salami, pepperocini, cheese and foccacia bread--then came the salad, and then Grandma's mostaccioli.
Phil ate and ate and ate. I don't blame him-- it's good stuff!
But then out came the turkey and all the fixings.
I'll never forget the look he gave me, as if to say, "What?!"
"Didn't we just eat dinner?" he asked.
"No." I said.
"Then what did we just eat?"
"Um, that was the pasta. We're Italian, remember?"
Pasta with every meal. Pasta with every meal.
So tonight I made mostaccioli for my little family.
I thought about Grandma as I boiled my noodles and stirred the sauce.
In fancy blue letters it said, "There's no Sauce in the World like Hunger."
Yes, and there's no pasta in the world like Grandma's.