As of tonight, my grandma reads my blog.
My grandma – or “Mamama,” as we call her – is one of those women who can make green beans that taste way better than yours. She lives in a yellow farmhouse in South Carolina and when she tells you she’s been praying for you, you can believe her. She owns two horses, and goes to a contemporary church with a rock band, and her best friends are a gay couple that live next door.
She is, quite honestly, my hero.
She called tonight to ask for my web address, and a few hours later, she sent me an email to tell me she’d spent nearly an hour reading my blog. And how my grandpa, who died three years ago this Christmas, would be so proud of me.
Writing, she said, was something he always aspired to do himself. His reasoning was that writers can have a great influence on people’s thinking.
This one’s for you, Mamama.