I have an angelic grandmother. Her Native American heritage has preserved her jet-black hair and smooth skin, even though her body will be turning 90 this year. Her accepting nature and the gracefulness in which she carries herself has permitted her the company throughout her life of a diverse assortment of individuals. She considers herself all people; not better than one, “loving each where they are at,” as she would often say.


Time has been, at times, a cruel partner to my grandmother. Her husband of almost 64 years has now been in Heaven for nearly nine years, along with one of her sisters, her brother and most of her friends. Like lives that have gone before her, so it feels like to her she has lived many lives already. She was an exceptionally talented artist in her prime. She could capture beauty into brushstrokes, leaving permanent gifts framed upon walls for those too busy to daydream.


Last week my mother wheeled her mom (my grandmother) into her yearly neurologist appointment to see how her dementia was developing. The doctor asked Grandma 30 questions, ranging from what is her full name to what state she lives in. As my grandmother was struggling to answer, it took everything in my mother’s control not to assist her mom. To see her struggle — the woman who helped her all throughout life — well, it was crushing. She saw this saintly lady now as delicate as some of her paintings which filled her home.


“I need to check to see if she can still write a sentence,” the doctor said as he handed Grandma a small pad of paper and a pen.


My mother cringed, knowing her mom had stopped writing regularly some time ago. At best, she signed her first name at the bottom of greetings cards when patiently coached.


“What day is it?” he asked.


Grandma took the pen in her hand, her lavender polished nails still looking elegant against the arthritic curvature of her fingers. She finished writing and the doctor took the pad and pen from her lap. His eyebrows rose as he read the writing upon the paper.


“What? What did she write?” my mother asked, fearing the wrong answer once more, or worse, a simple scribble.


He paused. “Your mother wrote ‘This is the day the Lord has made.’”


Tears rose in my mother’s eyes as she was given the pad to look for herself. My mother was stunned, not only by the length of her sentence but by her answer. She knew the answer. She knew her Lord and Savior. Yes, she had missed so many of the other questions, but she knew with certainty what day it was.


The body will return to dust, but the spirit returns to our unchanging God (Ecclesiastes 12:2, Hebrews 6:18). We are assured that life nor death will separate us from God (Romans 8:38-39). Even when life seems to have forgotten itself, God never forgets us (Isaiah 49:15-16). Thanks to the death and resurrection of Christ Jesus, we can experience eternity knowing what day it is, beginning today.


“This is the day that the LORD has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.” — Psalm 118:24.


SGLY, dear readers.


(Smile, God Loves You.)


Tiffany Kaye Chartier is a Christian writer and an opinion columnist. To submit feedback on SGLY or to offer a specific topic idea, please contact Chartier at news@ amtrib. com. Follow Chartier on Face - book: facebook. com/ tiffanychartier and Twitter: @tiffany chartier