Stories, she wrote

A Labor Day of Love

My grandmother passed away around this time a few years ago.

Her memories and mind were non-existent by the end of her life. She had been living with Alzheimer’s.

She had lost memory of us — except for one brief moment when I went to visit her a few years before her death, the day my grandfather died.

I hadn’t seen her in a few years. She was wheeled out to us, her face bloated and tired. She looked at everyone blankly, but when she saw me, her eyes lit up like a child at Christmas. She grabbed my hand and held it up to her cheek, her eyes wide and head nodding.

My hand on her cheek, I was transported back to her house, the warm cinnamon smell, the quiet tick of the clock, the click-clack click-clack click-clack of the Yahtzee dice we used to play for hours.

I carry her name as my middle name.

I’m convinced she remembered me that day.

I am convinced she never forgot me.

My grandmother was a worker bee through and through.

She grew up working on a dairy farm and eventually helped to run the livestock auction in her town before meeting and marrying my grandfather.

She lived to be 89. A full life with 4 children — 2 biological and 2 adopted, a pastor’s wife, homemaker, and baker of cookies extraordinaire.

She was always doing something for others. Serving in the church came naturally to her. Serving, working, and caring was in her blood. Caregiving roots are deep in my family.

We lived about 4 hours from my grandparent’s house and my siblings and I would stay with them for a week in the summer.

Even then, her work ethic didn’t lax. She would kick us out of the house while she deep cleaned, leaving us to wander a town we didn’t know. We made some stranger friends at the library those summers.

When she died, the only thing I could do to process my grief was paint the entire downstairs of my house on Labor Day.

Literally working through my grief.

Because there is no one way to grieve.

I wasn’t honoring the history of Labor Day.

I was honoring her.

The worker bee who was often unrecognized, yet held it all together.

She never had a revered title, never had stock options or a pension. Never hired and fired people or went on business trips.

But she was a worker. She worked and worked and worked tirelessly.

A simple woman who made it her job to love others.

And the mental load must have been incredibly heavy for her.

You would never know.

On this Labor Day, we celebrate and honor the history of formal work here in America. The labor history is quite a tumultuous and violent one.

On this Labor Day, I celebrate the silent labor. The unrecognized efforts. The people who are a strong foundation for others who are climbing a ladder. Who allow others to stand on their shoulders to reach that golden ticket.

The people who labor behind closed doors, who are rising by raising change makers and world changers within their own homes.

The people who silently carry the mental load on their shoulders, unable to offload it.

And the people who are undergoing emotional labor. The inner, intangible, heavy work that we may not see externally. The work that is so tumultuous and so fruitful at the same time.

See, there are all kinds of labor. And much of it does not come with an external stamp of approval in the form of a paycheck, a certificate, or a title.

Yet, we press on.

I see you.

And my grandmother sees you and nods her head to you.

Happy Labor Day.

In humanity,

Amy

💜