A Granddaughter's Tribute: Getting to Know My Grandmother at 99

In June 2019, a 99-year-old woman in Dyersburg, Tennessee posed a question that would become a profound moment of connection with her granddaughter. "Do you think there is a heaven?" she asked, her eyes holding a mix of curiosity and fire that surprised her visitor.

This was not the grandmother her granddaughter had known as a child—a stoic taskmaster who raised three daughters on a central Illinois farm. This was a woman who had driven until she was 88 years old, lived independently for a decade after her husband's death, and now, in her final months, was willing to question the very faith that had anchored her entire life.

Their relationship had evolved dramatically over the years. What began as obligatory family visits transformed into meaningful adult conversations that would reshape how the granddaughter understood her family legacy, her own anxieties, and the nature of faith itself.

The woman they called GGMa was the daughter of Lithuanian immigrants who had carved out a life on a farm in central Illinois. Her early years were defined by the hardship and resilience characteristic of the Greatest Generation, shaping her into a disciplined, task-oriented woman who expected the same from others.

For much of her granddaughter's childhood, this matriarch remained somewhat distant. She was the visiting grandmother who maintained high standards and carried an air of mystery about her past. Yet beneath that stoic exterior lay unexpected dimensions that would only emerge through adult connection.

Her daily life reflected deep convictions and simple pleasures:

• Praying the rosary with devotion
• Watching the Catholic channel on her 20-inch television
• Playing competitive card games with fierce strategy
• Enjoying occasional sips of blackberry brandy as a nightcap

Every phone conversation followed a familiar pattern: "Did you go to church today?" This question wasn't judgment—it was her way of expressing care, a ritual that connected generations through shared values.

The transformation in their relationship began years earlier, during a spring afternoon in 2002. The granddaughter, wrestling with lifelong anxiety, heard words that stopped her in her tracks.

"There's no shame in being afraid."

These seven words from her grandmother carried the weight of lived experience. For someone who had spent years "running from my anxious nature," this admission from a woman known for her strength and discipline was freeing. It revealed a vulnerability and understanding that had never been visible before.

As both women aged, their dynamic shifted. The granddaughter, having missed the later years of her paternal grandmother's life due to college and travel, made a conscious decision to invest time in her maternal grandparents. The fact that both lived into their nineties felt like a gift—one she wouldn't waste.

The grandmother's humor also emerged more clearly in later years. She possessed a wry sense of humor that complemented her husband's gentler, joke-filled personality. Together, they had instilled a sense of joy and laughter in their three daughters, a legacy that cascaded down to grandchildren and great-grandchildren alike.

By June 2019, the grandmother had recently been admitted to a long-term care facility in Dyersburg, Tennessee. Her granddaughter and mother made the journey south to visit, unaware these would be their final meaningful conversations.

When the question about heaven emerged, the granddaughter responded honestly: "I'd like to think there is a heaven, Grandma." This reply reflected her own spiritual but skeptical perspective—different from her grandmother's blind faith, yet respectful of it.

The grandmother's faith had always been lived, not just spoken. She held deep respect for her small-town priest, who visited her regularly in long-term care. Yet her willingness to question—even at 99 years old—showed remarkable intellectual courage. Her granddaughter found herself in awe that someone in their tenth decade could still wrestle with life's biggest questions.

During that visit, they escaped the facility's stale air for the summer sunshine. The grandmother directed her granddaughter toward doors like a co-pilot, and in the last photograph taken, she wore Maui Jim sunglasses with the midday sun on her face, looking entirely like herself.

The final visit held a moment of transcendent beauty. The grandmother was sitting up in bed on her knees, "like a teenager," singing a hymn and waving toward the ceiling in rhythm. She appeared 30 years younger, caught in a trance-like state of clear communication with someone—or something—beyond the room.

Her granddaughter watched, certain she was witnessing her grandmother receiving her answer about heaven. The moment felt both peaceful and profound, a culmination of a life lived with conviction and curiosity.

Looking back, the granddaughter wonders whether the heaven question was truly for her grandmother's benefit, or if it was meant to encourage her granddaughter to explore her own beliefs. Perhaps it was both—a final gift of wisdom passed from one generation to the next.

What remains certain is the profound benefit of those adult years together. The granddaughter gained appreciation for a woman who was simultaneously:

• Faithful to her beliefs
• Unexpectedly fun and spirited
• Stubborn in her convictions
• Open about her anxieties
• Remarkably strong through 99 years

The relationship between granddaughter and grandmother demonstrates that knowing someone requires time—not just proximity, but intentional, adult-to-adult connection. The woman who seemed distant in childhood revealed herself to be a complex, questioning, deeply human individual when given the space to be seen differently.

Her legacy lives on not just in memories, but in the wisdom she imparted: that fear is human, that faith can coexist with questions, and that it's never too late to truly know someone. For her granddaughter, these lessons transformed grief into gratitude and provided a roadmap for appreciating the full humanity of those we love.

If heaven does exist, a woman who prayed the rosary, sang hymns at 99, and wasn't afraid to question her own beliefs is surely there. But her greater gift was showing that understanding comes not from years alone, but from the courage to ask hard questions and the grace to listen to the answers.