As I look at the photo above, I didn't remember her being this small. Her hugs were firm. Her hand on my back was solid. Nothing about her seemed diminutive. She kissed me with enthusiasm. At least six times. Then she learned my maiden name and I was kissed on alternating cheeks all over again.
In a high, almost raspy voice she rapidly spilled words of praise for my parents.
With knees aching from arthritis she quickly sank into the couch and sighed with a smile on her face. She told me in Shqip, "I said to your dad last time he visited, 'Just put me in a bag and take me home with you!'"
Then, "Having you here is like having your parents visit." (I highly doubt that, but accepted the compliment). As for their absence today, "They are getting old like me and can't get out of the house." (ha, ha!)
I thought of the arduous walk up the mountain to her home and knew she was surely housebound. I wondered how long it had been since she had left her hillside as the paved road ended about a 15-minute walk (with good legs) below.
Having been assigned to the co-operative, hard work robbed her body during its strongest years. Her husband, no doubt as sturdy as she had surely been, died just last year... working in the field.
When we asked how long she had been married, and at what age she was married, she couldn't remember.
Conversation moved to the stories of her grandchildren, sitting with us in the room. Both children had miraculous stories of survival. They sat silently while we talked about them, but we affirmed their mother, that God did indeed intervene in their lives, most suredly so they would know of His great love for them, and I marveled again. I marveled how I was sitting in this little mountain side home. Marveled that we could testify to His goodness. Marveled that I was witnessing years of sowing love into hearts that was showing signs of sprouting faith in One above.
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