Dear Parish families, I would like to share a poem that means a lot to me, written by my dad for the funeral of my grandma Rockey.  I have fond memories of grandma’s gentleness and hugs, as she shared in our family experiences  living with us in Pontiac, MI and Stow, OH from 1959-1966.

Praying Hands
When grandma came to live with us,
  ‘Twas quite a while ago;
Her hands from life-long tasks were worn,
  Her once swift gait was slow.
And, as the years sped swiftly by
  And grandma older grew,
Much longer also grew the list
  Of things she couldn’t do.
She leaned on cane and walker soon,
  More slowly moved and bent.
She found it hard to understand
  Our words and our intent.
The same old stories she’d repeat,
  The same old triumphs claim.
We knew them all by heart, but still, 
We’d listen just the same.
The years of toil had lined her face;
  Her shoulders stooped with care.
How often, then, her wrinkled hands
  Were clasped in silent prayer.
The world she lived in was the past.
  Her mind was clear, but yet,
Her yesteryears she’d well recall,
  Her yesterdays . . . forget.
Sometimes she’d shed a lonesome tear
  For dear ones far away,
But mostly she’d just bow her head
  And fold her hands and pray.
And, now that God has called her home
  To share His bliss above,
Her prayers shall our example be
  Of faith, of hope and love.
We know that when, before our Judge,
  Each of us, fearful, stands,
His mercy He’ll extend, because
  Of grandma’s praying hands.
L. Lawrence Logsdon (1907-1979)

My dad’s religiousness and disciplined influence on our family were shaped by his (five year) seminary association with the Franciscan friars and as a Navy veteran of WWII.  Married in 1936, my mom Trudy’s  influence can be summarized in one “word”: joy-love-humility.  
Let us all pray one Hail Mary for our parents and grandparents, living and gone.  
Sincerely in Christ, Tim Logsdon