Yesterday morning Kristen came over with all the ingredients to make your special spaghetti sauce. Who knew that yesterday, the day we chopped and talked and pureed and laughed and cried (from all the onions) creating this generational recipe — that exact day –you would go to be with Jesus. I smell a thousand memories in that sauce: an accumulation of large, loud family gatherings huddled around an oversized bowl of pasta, sausage, and meatballs. I will miss you, Grandma. I will miss your soft, wrinkly skin and deep green eyes that knowingly told the story of a hundred lifetimes. I will miss the fearsome spirit that dwelt beneath your meek 85 pound frame. I will miss your house. And although I can’t quite fathom what our family gatherings will look like without our iconic pillar of strength, I rejoice that you are in Peace now, that your lungs no longer labor, and that you no longer know fear, loneliness, or death. You are whole, resting in Life, Truth, and Love. But I will always remember. I will remember the way you displayed compassion on others when you assumed no one to be looking, or the way you would bashfully return compliments in your New York accent saying, “oh, get out of here.” I will remember the way you greeted each of your grandchildren as though we were the only one. I will remember your quiet wisdom, stubborn tenacity, unrelenting support, and of course your never-ending treats. I love you, Grandma.