My Angel's Love: A Tribute to Grandma Sharon

She called me her angel, but really — she was mine.

Grandma Sharon was the kind of woman who lit up a room, not with volume but with grace. Always polished, always poised. Her red painted nails, favorite jewelry pieces, and warm smile made her unforgettable. You'd never catch her without her lipstick or her kind words. And her hugs? The kind that made you feel safe, spoiled, and seen. 

Growing up, she gave me memories dipped in joy. Convertible rides through Clear Lake, bike adventures just the two of us, and sweet stops at the candy shop where she let me pick anything I wanted. We'd sing silly songs, laugh until our bellies ached, and she'd hand out quarters to strangers just because she could. She believed in spreading kindness like it costs nothing—because to her, it didn't. That's just who she was. 

She loved flowers; red roses were her favorite, and we are planting some in memory of her in our garden here at home. She adored butterflies, and the little things that reminded her of the beauty in everyday life. My butterfly on my forearm is in memory of her. Her faith was quiet but deep, and her voice sang proudly in the church choir. Even as dementia slowly changed parts of her, the spark of her sweetness and her love for her family never faded. She fought with such gentle strength until she passed in 2012. 

I miss her every day. I miss her hand in mine as she would walk me across the streets, her laugh, her sparkle, the way she'd proudly introduce me as her one and only granddaughter. And I'm so thankful for the love she gave me that still shapes who I am today — especially now that I'm a mama myself. My daughter's middle name is Lynn, just like Grandma's was. Ariella Lynn carries a part of her great-grandma in her name and I hope, in her heart someday too. It felt only right to honor the woman who helped raise me by giving my little girl a piece of her legacy. 

And now, there this image — a moment my heart likes to imagine: 
Three generations standing in a sunny garden path near Clear Lake. Myself as a little girl on my bike, beaming up at Grandma Sharon as she gently holds a butterfly. I'm older now, holding my daughter Ariella, while another butterfly lands on her tiny shoulder. Flowers bloom around us, like memories still alive. The candy shop peeks in the distance, like a sweet echo of those perfect summer days. And in the scene— real or imagined— we're all there, connected by more than just time. 

And Grandpa Lyle — her soulmate and best friend — still carries her love with him, just like the rest of us do. He's full of wisdom, stories, chocolate, and a competitive spirit when it comes to pickleball or card games. He reminds me often that love like theirs doesn't disappear. It just changes form. And I believe him. 

Grandma Sharon, thank you for loving me with such fullness. I hope I make you proud. I see pieces of you in the way I mother Ariella — in the softness, the silliness, the faith, and the little moments filled with wonder. And every time I say her name — Ariella Lynn— I'm reminded that your love is still here, woven into the generations that follow.