The Apron

It was the essence of who she was.

Wiping her hands thoroughly for what may have been the “50th” time that day, on the signature patterned piece of material, snuggly and meticulously tied in a knotted bow behind her back, my grandma glided her way gracefully across the farmhouse kitchen floor between the stove and the table, tending to her freshly baked buns, gloriously on the rise.

Fresh Garden potatoes fried in lard, and lots of it, with lots of onions, simmered on the stove waiting for Grandpa to come in from the barn for supper.

I was blessed to have had a few grandmas that wore these coveted aprons over the years.

Just hours before, this same handmade apron, trimmed with vintage lace, served as a “bowl” for her large garden fresh grown cucumbers and ripe tomatoes picked that morning.

This same apron served as comfort as grandma knelt to wipe the tears off of one of us grandkids as we burst in the farmhouse door regularly, skinned knee needing one of her Band-Aid bandages after a rousing game of outdoor hockey with our younger uncle.

As the day wore on, the apron stayed fastened securely around Grandma’s wonderfully soft waste my little hands would wrap around often.

It wasn’t just something she wore… put on…

it was her.

Taking a break in her day, Grandma would ever so often find her way to her bedroom down the hallway and lay herself gently on her perfectly made bed for just awhile.

As she lay in the cool of her room, shaded by the canopy of poplar trees standing stoically around the back of the house, her mind would periodically travel back as memories of a different time would bring a smile to her lips along with a happy tear or two getting wiped away with the corner of her apron.

It seemed to be a quiet gentle friend in those kind of moments… never far away… just within reach.

This same apron had wrapped her tiny babies tightly and securely to shield the daylight from their eyes to help along the process of lulling them perhaps into the land of an afternoon nap in the moment.

A quick dip of the corner of the farmhouse sink filled with dishwater carried in from the farm yard well, was just the perfect solution for wiping off a “milk beard” of fresh farm milk from us little girls, as grandma’s pursed lips made a buzzing sound through her contagious smile with every stroke.

The Apron.

It stood for something.

Something safe, something answered, something felt,

When bursting through that 60s farmhouse door I would see my grandma’s apron tucked lovingly and securely around her beautiful being…

I felt home.

A place where my body, my soul, my spirit could rest, knowing it would be the answer to my tears… milk beard… skinned knees…and my naptime apron… shielding the light from my childhood sleepy eyes.

A place I could rest against the soft essence of my grandma.

Now many years later, though living in adulthood now, being a blessed Grandma to eight grandchildren myself, my heart still longingly remembers the apron as I think back to those favourite childhood memories.

I don’t have to look too far as I remember how my God has wiped my tears… cleaned my skinned knees… provided abundance from His garden of Plenty, and even wiped my silly milk moustache… because He lives in all pieces of our lives.

Nothing is too much for Him. and I need to remind myself though the days of Grandma’s apron are but a treasured memory now tucked deep in my heart, He is always enough for all of this… and so much more.

A quiet gentle friend always just within reach… A place of rest in the midst of all life brings.

I have a Hope.

You have a hope.

A hope of a God who will be all of this to us and so much more… enveloped in His amazing love… reminding us of all we found…

In the apron❤️