I dedicate this post to the memory of my Grandma Virginia who lost her life today. She was born March 31st, 1904 in South Dakota. She had a long, healthy life and lived lifetimes of adventure. What I remember most about her was her warmth and laughter, a trait she passed on to her three sons. When I think of her I see her as an elegant woman, hair coiffed, makeup in place and always sporting beautiful dress or pants suit (that she had sewn) with matching jewelry. But she was also an outdoors woman. We went fishing together, collected rhubarb at the lake to make pies and made necklaces from the violets that grew in her backyard. She taught me to appreciate her love of nature and art. She will always hold a special place in my heart. Today I celebrate her life with a poem she wrote.
It has been said that "God is Dead"
How can He be?
He paints vast canvases for us to see.
His knowing might our world controls
For mans enjoyment natures gifts unfolds
Earths revolutions, guided by his hand,
Expose new glories of our land.
Each seasons gifts he paints anew.
The mountains, the clouds, the rain, the dew
When snow has fallen through the night
And everything is clothed in white,
Mans disfiguring creations lie concealed
Above the horizon gradually revealed,
Appear the Masters strokes in reds & blues
Tinting the snow with reflected hues,
Clouds bright linings next unfold,
Which the rising sun has touched with gold.
The miracle of Spring, the Summer flowers,
The songs of the birds that fill the hours,
The beauty of the autumns flaming rays,
Who but the Master Craftsman could portray
Pictures from the artist brush adorn
The never ending mural begun each morn.
At days end painted with color bright
It fades into a restful moonlit night.
God is not dead, How could he be?
- Virginia Shoemaker Slaybaugh
Previous Posts about my grandmother: