With These She Was Content

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This tribute was written for my grandma Naomi’s memorial service. She entered Christ’s presence Sunday morning, August 17th.

My grandma Naomi was a lover of the little things. Looking out her and Papa’s sunroom windows this time of year—when the cicadas are full in the trees, the fish flipping down in the pond, and August is crouching in on the property they shared for more than 50 years—I can see why.

Papa told me the other day that he and Mema used to take their coffee out to the sunroom in the mornings, where they’d sit there and just look at everything. Sometimes, one of them took out binoculars and followed a hawk or a deer down into the woods. Then Papa would look at Mema and say something like:

“You know, most people don’t have this kind of view to look at.”

And she would say, “Yep.”

And they’d both just sit there till they got tired of sitting there, practicing a kind of contentment that’s often lost in today’s busy world. 

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I loved this about Mema. She got excited about the smallest things. I would come around the pond, up the hill, and if I couldn’t see her perched in the sunroom window, I at least saw her hair. (Even on hospice, the nurses were still complimenting Mema’s hair.) I’d come in for a visit and announce the news: 

“Two mallards on the pond this morning!”

And this was the headline of the neighborhood. Better than Fox 2 News or KSDK in the morning was the latest down at the pond. Mema’s morning was booked. 

A few evenings ago, as Jared and I sat at her bedside, I got out one of Mema’s big boxes of photos. She was a scrapbooker and took pictures of everything. I remember how she’d follow us kids around with one of those silver digital cameras that blinded us every time she took a picture. She rarely asked us to say “cheese.” She just quietly captured whatever we were busy doing.

What struck me about all those pictures was just how ordinary they were. A grandkid opening a birthday gift. A grandkid in a tree. The tiger lilies blooming orange on the pond banks. Evenings in our Branson condo, kids in the bathtub, Trent making pancakes, and Papa reorganizing the kitchen (again).

This is beautiful, I thought. Mema wasn’t just concerned with the big moments, but she knew a secret so many people miss, that the Lord does His work in moments and minutes—in the slow, ordinary events that make up our years. 

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As her granddaughter, I see how Mema’s contentment has encouraged my own. Like her, I can sit on my own back porch on an August evening in Arkansas and just look at everything there is to see: the sun setting, a hummingbird on the feeder, a honeybee in the grass. By God’s grace, I am learning to take these ordinary gifts like manna from His hand.

Paul once wrote to Timothy about contentment, saying:

“We brought nothing into the world, and we cannot take anything out of the world. But if we have food and clothing, with these we will be content.” ~ 1 Tim. 6:7-8

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For Mema, it was new slippers and a good book each Christmas. With these ordinary gifts, she was content. 

But I think that quiet contentment came from a place far more beautiful than even Papa’s pond. Its source was the Great God whom my Mema served, whom she prayed to daily, and whom she lived with so much gratitude toward. She understood that every good gift really does come from the Father of lights, and her contentment on this earth led her into the fullness of His joy, where, at His right hand, there are pleasures forevermore.

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