We would have just finished cleaning up after a huge, marvelous breakfast when the inevitable question would come from the matriarch. “What shall we have for lunch?” A few stifled laughs and groans from those with stuffed bellies would ripple around the room and the discussion would commence. Such a scene is pervasive among my collection of childhood memories of my Grandma and Grandpa’s home in mountainous Flagstaff, Arizona. My grandparents were well known for their hospitality, and my grandmother for her joy in preparing delicious and creatively presented meals for her children, grandchildren, the continuous flow of students from all over the world who lived with them and called them Mom and Dad, and anybody else who’d decide to show up at the Lauger home. For me, this was love.
 

Several years ago, the feared diagnosis came. Grandma had Alzheimer’s, the cruel tyrant that slowly took her brother’s life some years prior. It wasn’t long before activities she once held dear as a way to show love were no longer feasible. Cooking stopped. It might seem odd, but I think I really did mourn the end of my grandma’s culinary career! My grandmother can no longer cook a five course meal laid out on a magnificent table or share pictures and stories with curious, then restless, grandchildren for hours. My grandfather can no longer work tirelessly on home improvement projects or building the mattress carriers he invented in retirement and used as a way to employ and minister to the marginalized.

 

Though they are now in a much different stage of life and are in a senior living center where activities like doctor’s visits, bingo, and hymn sings fill most of their days, I’m learning to see past the situational aspects of their lives to the essence of who they are. For despite the changes, their abiding character, love, and desire to serve shine forth as brightly as ever. On a recent trip to visit them, it was apparent that my grandma’s memory of me was murky at best. Yet mercifully she recognized me as one she dearly loved, and she greeted me with a kiss on the lips, a bear hug, and a declaration that I was a blessing to them.

 

They seem 60 years younger as they giggle and tease about their first meeting on a bus in the Midwest, where a confident, daring young lady invited a handsome young man in uniform home for Thanksgiving because God told her to “go after” him. My grandfather continues to strategize how best they can use the family home to minister to others, even after they pass on. My grandmother refuses to sit or eat unless everyone else is doing the same, despite any protests they might foolishly make. And they adamantly refuse to be parted from each other in this life despite the ill-fated advice some might be tempted to give. This is love.