Death by Mashed Potatoes

My grandmother died a month ago. She was not killed by mashed potatoes, though she did insist the hospital kitchen was trying their best. No, Grandma died very much her feisty old self, going home on very much her own terms.



As my family gathered in the north suburbs of Chicago to lay Grandma to rest, celebrate her life and pack up her apartment, the Grandma/Mom stories were endless. How she, my Mom and my Aunt took a two week trip from Philadelphia to New Orleans in the 60s traveling no more than 100 miles per day; how she would never wear her Lifeline bracelet no matter who told her or how many times we told her; how she complained about the mashed potatoes she couldn’t swallow and threw a plate of toast breaking it, to try and get the nurse’s attention in the hospital; how she at 94 years thought things like walkers, canes, nursing homes and Lifeline bracelets are for old people; and most importantly, how dearly she loved her God and her family.

Grandma was the most independent woman I’ve ever known. She belonged to no one except God, and she knew it, and she’d make sure you knew it. She could come across as a cranky, irritable person, but it was simply her New England matter-of-factness, stubborn and determined independence greeting you with some sass. She had a robust sense of humor, inherited by one and all of us in the family…a known fact by those who know me. Her favorite thing to say was, “I’ll do what I want, when I want, if I want.”



What was perhaps at times least obvious, but always most consistent and present was Grandma’s faith and her love for her family. After the memorial service, the women of the church had a reception for us. I met several of my Grandma’s friends, folks who served with her on the mission committee, and women who drove her to church. Grandma moved to Chicago from Chester PA in the late 80s after her husband, my Grandpy, lost a battle with cancer. I got my first real glimpse at the new life she created and lived to the fullest there, as I gathered with loved ones to say goodbye.



I also got something else very important…understanding. I had an aha moment at the memorial service reception after several women inquired about my search for a pastorate. Grandma asked incessantly if I had found a church yet, and I felt a bit harassed. I felt she was being impatient along with lots of folks around me who fail to comprehend my call process. What I learned though is that in Grandma’s case, it wasn’t impatience that I get a job, rather she was filled with a defiant confidence that I am called to be a pastor, and she would not rest while I worked in a job where I do not belong. All she wanted for me is for me to be who God calls me to be. I wouldn’t be surprised if she were giving God a piece of her mind about my call right now.



Grief will come and go. Memories will live on. Stories of Grandma’s antics and long life will continue to be told. And the heavens will be better for one more of God’s children has come home.



Linette Elizabeth Fargo Smith
September 24, 1914 – August 19, 2009