Monday, June 18, I received a call from Dick Reaves just after noon about the death of his mother, Marie Reaves Grant, or Gramma Reaves as so many of us knew her. It’s been a busy week or I would have written about her sooner.

I met “Dad and Mom” Reaves back  in 1972, when they were youth sponsors for the high school youth at First Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) in Greensboro, NC. It’s quite possible they were my first “real” adult friends who were not related to me by blood or local church affiliation. I mostly remember them smiling, ever patient, welcoming, making all of us youth feel like we were real people.

My second weekend in college, a New Jersey friend talked me into going to Greensboro for the weekend. Greensboro was only about 45 minutes from my home, but I didn’t even think about going home – I had friends in Greensboro, I wanted to test my freedom, and besides, Rick said, “We can stay at Mom and Dad Reaves.” Enough said!

I don’t think Rick asked them ahead of time, but they had beds for us, and fed us, and acted like they had been expecting us for days. Other than being with them, it was a lousy weekend, but Mom Reaves and I began a friendship that grew over the years, especially when I returned from an almost-five-year pastorate in Georgia to my present ministry at Christmount.

There are lots of stories, and many of them will be told at her memorial service this Saturday. What I remember most is her unconditional love of high school kids, especially at camp.

She was everyone’s Gramma by the time I got back to North Carolina from Georgia in 1989, and that “gramma-ness” expanded from North Carolina to all over the country when she showed up at a General Assembly of the Christian Church in the US and Canada: she went to all the youth events, and suddenly, she was a celebrity among the kids! I saw her walking with about 20 youth, none of whom I knew, and just laughed and pointed her out to a friend who said, “That’s our Gramma: Gramma now to a whole generation!”

She loved my wife, Renae,  (a prerequisite for friendship with me) and always asked me about her, and when she heard us do music, her whole face lit up in a smile. She was, actually, a walking, talking smile.

Yet the times I treasured (and I’m sure this is true of all of us) were the times alone, sitting in the eating area of her farmhouse, looking out into her backyard toward the pasture (she and dad had some cattle that they slaughtered and ate, and I remember my shock when I asked Dad, “Where’s Stroganov?” and he answered, “On your fork!”), having a glass of wine or something stronger, talking about the state of youth ministry, or worrying about a particular youth, or just talking about faith in general. Sometimes we’d take a walk – for a woman in her ate 70’s, she was amazingly agile and kept herself fit (even taking ballroom dancing classes!) – and luckily, I could keep up with her in those days.

Dad Reaves died in the 1980’s while I was in Georgia, and I heard about it second-hand and too late to be present for my friend, but when we reconnected in June of 1988, she told me story after story of their time together, of his death, of how she was surrounded by friends and family during that time: it made me sad that I had missed it, but we certainly made up for it during the 90’s and early 2000’s. Thomas Keating once told me that real friends can go for years and not see or hear from each other, then suddenly meet and pick up where they left off; this proved true for us.

Gramma’s greatest gift was to see the good in the worst campers. If I complained about someone’s behavior, she would tell me something good they did. If she knew I was having a problem with a person, she wasted no time reminding me of how sweet he or she had been to someone, and she knew the campers better than I ever would. Sometimes, I said that the only reason that the high school campers loved me at all (especially in the late 90’s) was because Gramma saw something good in me.

Things I remember: sneaking whisky sours at 5 PM; “Madonna’s Gramma,” her skit every year at our camp talent show (something to be seen: I do not have the descriptive powers to begin to tell you about that Madonna-esque performance, but there were definitely some shocked campers every year when she strutted out and sang her song!); long theological discussions that surprised me with the depth of her questions; making her mad by changing the format of the camp newsletter (I am grateful that she forgave me!); and her always-open house (I have no memory of ever being turned away!).

It took me ten years to quit calling her “Mom Reaves” in the 90’s, and I finally told her I was giving in: she would be Gramma, and I would join the thousands – at least it seems like thousands – of those who were who devoted family. I believe she was pleased.

The last time she was at a youth event without her new husband, Marshall Grant, she asked if she could hold my arm while we walked, to steady her. It’s the first time I ever noticed that she was getting older. But I was escorting my friend, and the thought quickly passed as we started talking about the event, the different youth who were just becoming her friends, and how much she hated that she would probably not get to do this too much longer.

She picked a good second husband: Marshall Grant was as nice as she was, as patient with her passion for young people, and they – we – all loved him, because she did. He is one of the kindest people around, and she loved him. That was good enough for me.

I realize this is rambling, and for those of you who did not know her, there’s probably nothing here that will enlighten you. For those of you who did: remember that she loved you. It wasn’t a dream: there really was Gramma Reaves, and she embodied the love of God in ways no one else ever has!

Rest in the arms of the One you loved, Gramma. Meanwhile, we will miss you, and love you still.