Grandma’s Wisdom

5 pieces of truth passed down

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Behind the poem

In 2017, just a few weeks before my grandmother went home to be with the Lord, I asked her a simple question that I didn’t realize would stay with me for the rest of my life. I asked her if she could give me five pieces of advice, five things she believed were most important to carry forward. She didn’t rush her answer. She spoke with the calm wisdom and kind humility of someone who had walked with God through many seasons of life. What she gave me were not complicated instructions, but simple truths that had guided her faith, her decisions, and the way she loved people.

Grandparents often leave us more than memories. They leave us lessons and words that echo long after they’re gone. The poem below was written around the five things my grandmother told me that day—five pieces of wisdom that continue to shape the way I try to live.

Grandma Eva.

She told me:
1. Know the Lord
2. After you pray you gotta listen for the answer
3. Be obedient
4. Be patient
5. Be an example for others

These five lessons were simple, but they carry a lifetime of faith within them.

This poem is my way of honoring her voice, her faith, and the wisdom she passed down—wisdom that I hope continues to guide not only my life, but the lives of others who hear it.

I had the chance to read it at Grandparents Day, an event at a Christian elementary and middle school in St. Charles, Missouri. And here is what I shared with them …

Grandma’s Wisdom

Grandma sat in the quiet
like the evening does
when the sun knows
it has done enough for the day.

The room smelled like coffee
and an ink-stained Bible,
marked up, underlined,
notes crowding the margins,
reminders of hope and heaven.

There was bread baking in the oven
filling the house with the smell of warmth and welcome.

There was a kind of peace
that only comes
after a long life
of trusting God
through things
that didn’t make sense yet.

A few weeks before heaven
became her home
I asked her a question.

“Grandma, what advice would you give us?”

She didn’t rush.
Wisdom never does.

She looked at me
the way only grandparents can,
like they see
both the child you were
and the person
God is still growing,
past the starting line, but far from the great arrival.

Then she gave me five things, five seeds to hold.
Seeds to plant, to water, to tend.

She said,

Know the Lord.

Not know about Him.
Not just Sunday songs.
Not only the stories and sermons.

Know Him
the way a tree knows rain,
not as information,
but as life.

The way a son knows his father,
not as inheritance,
but as home.

Then she said,

After you pray
you gotta listen
for the answer.

Because prayer
isn’t just talking.
It isn’t just rambling a list of requests.

It’s quieting the noise of hurry
and fear
and a thousand loud opinions
so the still
small
voice of Love
can be heard.

Sometimes the answer
comes loud like thunder
or soft as a feather.

Sometimes it comes like a presence,
something like Psalm 23.

A note written from home
found in your pocket
further down the road.

But you won’t hear it
if you only talk.

Then she said,

Be obedient.

Because a life
that trusts God
walks where He leads
even when the road
looks unfamiliar.

Obedience practices the way of Jesus
even when the way feels uncertain.

Even when temptation tries,
Even when heaviness arrives,
Even when the truth
is surrounded by a long list of lies.

Then she smiled
like someone remembering
a lifetime of waiting,
of knowing something good
grows after the storm has passed.

And she said,

Be patient.

Because God
is not in a hurry
the way we are.

Seeds take time.
Healing takes time.
Love takes time.
The garden of faith grows
at it’s own pace.

The prayers you whisper today
may bloom
in a far away season,
in a far away place.

Then finally she said,

Be an example for others.

Not perfect.
Just faithful.

Let your hands give,
Let your love live.

Let your kindness preach.
Let your forgiveness teach.

Because sometimes
the most beautiful sermon
is simply a life
that looks like walking with Jesus.

Grandma left
five small seeds
spoken in a quiet room
that echo longer
than a lifetime.

And maybe one day
when someone asks me
for wisdom

I’ll simply pass them on
the way she did,
like bread
still warm
from heaven’s table.

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