Grandmom.

I hadn’t sung in public for probably 10 years when my 95 year old paternal Grandmother passed away two years ago in February of 2019. It was undoubtedly a hard day. I know exactly where I was standing, who I was with, and I’ll see the photos we took that day at the Butterfly Place every year in my “TimeHop” and think: that’s where I heard that she had passed. My cousin called me while I was with friends viewing butterflies in a greenhouse-type structure at about 4000% humidity. She called me not long after Grandmom had passed and I am forever grateful to have been on her list of tough phone calls. The rest of the day is a blur. There was a pre-planned lunch with friends, a completely inappropriate shot at my suggestion, and then a rough dinner at my parents house. I was so grateful to shut my eyes that evening.

The following day, I received an equally surprising phone call from that same cousin to say that they had found our Grandmom’s hand-written requests for her own funeral. Among the specific readings and hymns, she had written:

“Solo – On Eagles Wings – Lisa”.

It was clear as day, and I (believe that I) had no choice but to fulfill her wishes.

I’ll be honest and say that I absolutely did not want to do it. It’d been years since I sang in public. My life has changed, my body has changed, my muscle memory is not the same as it was when I was in college for theater. My incredible cousin, who beared the brunt of arranging the services in PA alongside my beautiful Aunt, made it lovingly clear that no one would be upset if I opted not to sing. But as much as I wanted to decline, this just wasn’t about me. So my Dad found a black binder for my music, my Mom practiced the accompaniment on the piano, and I packed all three kids in the car and practiced, “On Eagles Wings” all the way from MA to PA.

There is one very clear thing that made me sing that day. I could not, and still cannot shake the memory of my Grandmom telling me (and my father, repeatedly throughout my life) that “if I wanted to do it, I would do it”. This applied to everything in my life. If I wanted to go to college, I’d go. If I wanted to randomly move 1,500 miles away, I would. If I suddenly wanted to buy a house, I’d find a way. If I decided to marry a man I’d only known for 17 months, I would. And she’d be there to support me. She was always, always there to support so many of us. It was a level of assured and composed, steadfast love that I aspire to. So maybe I didn’t “want to do it”, but I wanted to have done it for her.

I sang that day, while Grandmom’s love for her family and friends felt palpable in the sanctuary of that church in PA, and I held my baby boy on my hip while I sang. I held my 7 month old that day because he had not slept AT ALL the night prior. I mean, at all. Ask my poor cousin and her family who had housed us the night before. It was the worst night I’ve ever had with any one of my three babies in my entire life. I held him because I was nervous as all Hell, and I needed the crutch that was him. I held him because with my baby in my arms it felt less like a performance, and more like practice. I held him as a distraction from the sadness that I was fighting with everything inside me. I held him because I love him, and because she loved him, though she’d only met him once. I will never, ever forget that feeling.

It has been two years and I still get a heavy lump in my throat when I think of that day. I always will. I wrote this diary entry over 18 months ago and didn’t have the guts to post. My husband hasn’t even heard the recording. But this isn’t about me, or my singing. It’s about Grandmom, and the unwavering love that she provided to every one of us, without cause and without doubt. Her love and support has transcended her physical time on this Earth and I have felt the truth of that first hand. Little does she know, that a few simple words on a paper will forever remind me that, “if I want to do it, I will do it”, and that now every time I sing in my kitchen with that little boy on my hip, I think of her.