champagne flo
Today would have been my grandma Frahm's 98th birthday, affectionately known by family and friends as "Champagne Flo." Her sharp wit and love for life won her many friends, and she was not afraid to tell you what she thought of you. She was German through and through, although at family gatherings she and her sister Mildred acted more like women out of Fiddler on the Roof. They were always the life of the party; widows drinking Manhattens and playing gin rummy and telling their stories. If I should happen by, one of them would grab me, and pull me over. "Ach, little Annie - you are getting to be such a beauty. I saw your school picture - you have the Gerstetter gene. Let me look at you. And you have such nice cursive." Trust me, having the Gerstetter gene did not qualify anyone as a beauty, as fine and strong as they were. If we were horses, think Clydesdale over mustang.
When I was in the 4th grade, my dad planned a family vacation to Europe, hoping we would share his passion for Martin Luther, fine art and cathedrals. My Grandma Frahm came along and was my bunkmate on this trip, and who better to make a cultural experience real. It started on the plane as she shook her head while I drank my coke. "Why do you sip it like a priss? Drink it like this-" and she would guzzle her coke and slam the cup down on the tray, shaking the ice. "Ahh..." she would say, pleased with herself. She left me speechless most of the time or laughing hard.
In Cologne, Germany, she and I walked to the front of the beautiful cathedral in dim stillness, as light poured through the intricate stainglass, arching through the high ceilings. She noticed the small prayer room with candles lit and a wooden box to put coins in for penances. "What a waste. Don't put any of your coins in there," she would whisper, "we'll get a chocolate bar later. Let's go see where they sell the postcards." To her, this trip was an endless quest of shops with postcards to send out and buying chocolate bars to eat later in the evening. She was like a little kid, in wonder not so much of the art in the Louvre, but of the badets in our bathrooms. She was infectious and had me wearing scarves like an old woman by the end of the trip as she did, writing in my diary nightly as she did, eating chocolate in our pajamas and planning practical jokes to play on my brothers the next day.
My grandmother's faith was lifelong and childlike. I can still hear her singing "Jesus Loves Me" in the pew next to me, when she would come to visit us in Springfield, Illinois. So proud of her son the pastor at Trinity Lutheran Church, she would grip the pew in front of her as she stood and sing loud, smelling of Freedent gum and White Shoulders, and always wearing her trusty black or navy polyester separates for travel.
The last few years of her life, our phone conversations almost always revolved around 3 things: "pastor" Syd, Guideposts magazine articles and my writing. "When are you going to publish a book?" she would always ask. "When you become my agent," I would tell her, and she would just chuckle.
I never got to say goodbye to my grandma, as she became weak after hip surgery and never recovered, a little over a year ago. At the time several pieces of the family quilt were unravelling and it felt as if I was barely holding the threads together. Every time I called her hospital room she was sleeping. But that was a good thing, as she wouldn't want anyone crying over her like a sissy. I remember crying in the funeral home bathroom and hearing her voice saying "What are you crying for! There's a big party planned after this."
And there was, as most of my family drank Manhattens in her honor and told stories about her that made us laugh so hard. She would have loved it greatly. Her penchant for cuss words did not supersede her large heart. She was well loved in her retirement home in Milwaukee, as she shone brightly and was blessed with good health, God enabling her to help the weak. She would greet everyone in the place like the Queen, telling us who won big in Bingo that weekend and who had most recently died.
As we gathered the day of her funeral, my brother Andy handed me some folded pieces of paper that were in my grandma's bible. As I unfolded it and began reading, I dissolved into tears. It was an old story I had written about the first time I visited the homeless in Austin, printed out in a large type. That she would carry it around touched me deeply. She most likely forced it upon the wheelchair-bound elderly in her path to read.
Grandma surely loves her Jesus and I know she is up in heaven singing to him and making him laugh hard. Her life did overflow and I'm so grateful she was my grandma.
Your love is deeper than i know
Your ways higher than i can go
Glory is the song i sing
Your life is living me
and where would i be without You?
like a waterfall, You fill my heart and overflow
like a candle flame, You light my way and lead me as i go
Spirit overflow
let me overflow
Spirit overflow
let me overflow
from overflow, Chris Tomlin
When I was in the 4th grade, my dad planned a family vacation to Europe, hoping we would share his passion for Martin Luther, fine art and cathedrals. My Grandma Frahm came along and was my bunkmate on this trip, and who better to make a cultural experience real. It started on the plane as she shook her head while I drank my coke. "Why do you sip it like a priss? Drink it like this-" and she would guzzle her coke and slam the cup down on the tray, shaking the ice. "Ahh..." she would say, pleased with herself. She left me speechless most of the time or laughing hard.
In Cologne, Germany, she and I walked to the front of the beautiful cathedral in dim stillness, as light poured through the intricate stainglass, arching through the high ceilings. She noticed the small prayer room with candles lit and a wooden box to put coins in for penances. "What a waste. Don't put any of your coins in there," she would whisper, "we'll get a chocolate bar later. Let's go see where they sell the postcards." To her, this trip was an endless quest of shops with postcards to send out and buying chocolate bars to eat later in the evening. She was like a little kid, in wonder not so much of the art in the Louvre, but of the badets in our bathrooms. She was infectious and had me wearing scarves like an old woman by the end of the trip as she did, writing in my diary nightly as she did, eating chocolate in our pajamas and planning practical jokes to play on my brothers the next day.
My grandmother's faith was lifelong and childlike. I can still hear her singing "Jesus Loves Me" in the pew next to me, when she would come to visit us in Springfield, Illinois. So proud of her son the pastor at Trinity Lutheran Church, she would grip the pew in front of her as she stood and sing loud, smelling of Freedent gum and White Shoulders, and always wearing her trusty black or navy polyester separates for travel.
The last few years of her life, our phone conversations almost always revolved around 3 things: "pastor" Syd, Guideposts magazine articles and my writing. "When are you going to publish a book?" she would always ask. "When you become my agent," I would tell her, and she would just chuckle.
I never got to say goodbye to my grandma, as she became weak after hip surgery and never recovered, a little over a year ago. At the time several pieces of the family quilt were unravelling and it felt as if I was barely holding the threads together. Every time I called her hospital room she was sleeping. But that was a good thing, as she wouldn't want anyone crying over her like a sissy. I remember crying in the funeral home bathroom and hearing her voice saying "What are you crying for! There's a big party planned after this."
And there was, as most of my family drank Manhattens in her honor and told stories about her that made us laugh so hard. She would have loved it greatly. Her penchant for cuss words did not supersede her large heart. She was well loved in her retirement home in Milwaukee, as she shone brightly and was blessed with good health, God enabling her to help the weak. She would greet everyone in the place like the Queen, telling us who won big in Bingo that weekend and who had most recently died.
As we gathered the day of her funeral, my brother Andy handed me some folded pieces of paper that were in my grandma's bible. As I unfolded it and began reading, I dissolved into tears. It was an old story I had written about the first time I visited the homeless in Austin, printed out in a large type. That she would carry it around touched me deeply. She most likely forced it upon the wheelchair-bound elderly in her path to read.
Grandma surely loves her Jesus and I know she is up in heaven singing to him and making him laugh hard. Her life did overflow and I'm so grateful she was my grandma.
Your love is deeper than i know
Your ways higher than i can go
Glory is the song i sing
Your life is living me
and where would i be without You?
like a waterfall, You fill my heart and overflow
like a candle flame, You light my way and lead me as i go
Spirit overflow
let me overflow
Spirit overflow
let me overflow
from overflow, Chris Tomlin