The Unremarkable Life of Margaret Kulp

My grandmother died today.

It won’t make headlines.

Nary a tweet.

You see, her life was unremarkable.

But in the most enviable way.

At 93 years old, she died without fanfare or drama.

A humble passing, much reflective of her living.

I loved her for forty years.

But misunderstood her for many of them.

For decades, I watched.

Keenly observing as my dignified grandmother served.

Quietly.

Unobtrusively.

Without recognition, reward.

Or even a selfie.

Serving her husband, ironing his shirts, dipping his ice cream, buttering his bread.

Serving her family, setting elegant tables, scrubbing stained pans, folding tired towels.

The feminist fight died in her kitchen.

And I had thought it shameful.

My poor, pitiable grandmother.

A slave to the patriarchy

We’re liberated, grandmom! Throwdown your apron.

And in my foolish, blinding arrogrance, I even told her so.

(Because teenagers know everything about nothing.)

To which she offered a knowing smile in her gracious way.

Never a glib quip

As I made dumb decisions. Paraded through boyfriends. Poodle-permed my hair.

Never a derisive retort.

As I brandied opinions. Made foolish remarks.  Lobbed shortsighted judgements.

Just patient mercy towards me.

And I judged her as weak.

A weak woman, living an unremarkable life in domestic servitude.

Just a child of the Great Depression, a World War homefront warrior.

Who struggled quietly with infertility.  

Who adopted babies before it was trending.

Who buried a first husband. Then married a second.

Who blended families before we “knew” how.

Who managed a household of seven with just one full bath.

Who fought breast cancer before it was sexy.

Who played hymns at church for devoted decades.

Who attended a husband of 47 years until his final breath.

And never boasted one word about it.

Her only boast was Christ.

Strength clothed in weakness.

And indeed, she was lovely.

Let me tell you.

In a world that rushes, she was measured.

In a culture that profanes, she was respectful.

In a society unfiltered, she was restrained.

Grandmom wore a strand of pearls on Sunday, set against sweaters of muted mauve.

She sipped Folgers coffee after roast beef dinners enthroned in her wingback chair.

It was her way.

She loved cobalt blue curios. And her vintage baby grand.

She stockpiled thank you notes.

And Spearmint Jelly Leaves.

And Spatini tomato sauce with meatballs.

She prayed faithfully, love enacted. 

She honored her husband, even when undeserved.

Modesty marked her life. Now, crowns adorn her head.

In her final months, her favorite memories to recount were those of Ocean City vacations.

Of front porch rocking, donut eating, boardwalk strolling.

She loved saltwater taffy and Phillies baseball and the lilting laughter of those muggy, August nights.

It was heaven to her.

But now, she is there.

No. Not Ocean City.

Geez. New Jersey is *not* Heaven.

Rather.

Today, she saw Jesus face-to-face.

And as the hymn she sang for nearly a century-long declares, What a day of rejoicing this must be!

Today, she enjoys that “eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison.”  

Today, she heard, “Well done, my good and faithful servant.” 

We should all aspire to such an unremarkable life.