One day we were getting sweet kisses on the check and feeling his soft, wrinkly skin against our faces.
My phone was ringing and his number was showing up on the screen.
He had his old, worn Bible clutched in his hands with his arms spread wide…waiting for a hug.
And this isn't the first time. It wasn't that long ago that we mourned this sweet man. I don't remember a time he wasn't waiting for a visit in that old house - with the musty attic and creaking stairs.
He would drive up to the house on his green ranger for a visit.
He would hold my children and capture my heart with his laughter.
He didn't say much, but when he spoke to you…you listened and took everything to heart. He was a farmer his entire life, and passed down the love of the soil to his oldest son.
And then there is this sweet woman - who had a huge part in molding me into the woman that I am today.
Her kitchen was always open, always filled with amazing aromas, and a sanctuary where I could learn and share in her joy for baking.
I inherited her "worrying" gene.
Max was her pride and joy…and although she never got to meet her first great-granddaugther, I like to think that she was the very first person to hold her namesake, before I even met my Callie Catherine.
