Grandma is the word that speaks to the most special place in my childhood memories. And when I think of Christmas, my grandma was the most important part of my life growing up. I had grandmothers on both sides of my parents’ families but spent the most time with my dad’s mother. This is the Italian side of my family. When I think of her, I think of love and abundance, care and joy, adventure and storytelling, and wonderful food and service.
I called her Grandma Jojo; her name was Josephine. She taught me to sing “Jesus Loves Me” and she loved to hear it sung. More importantly though – she wanted me to know that Jesus loved me. She brought to life all that I learned about God as a child. She was faithful and kind and loving. Family was very important to her. She had a twinkle in her eye whenever she looked at me. She had a special way of making me feel seen and heard.
My Grandma Jojo lived a life of service to people in need, service to family members, neighbors, the elderly, the hungry, the list goes on. She and her sister, my great aunt, cooked and served Meals on Wheels for decades. During Christmas time she loved to gather as many people as possible. We ate around a ping pong table where we gathered in the basement of her small bungalow in Cicero IL. Sometimes she had so many guests that there were tables set on the main floor and even the upstairs apartment where my great aunt and uncle lived. Grandma Jojo exuded gratitude for these gatherings and always had an abundance of love and food in her home during Christmas, and on Sunday nights in general, as we went to her house for dinner on Sundays for much of my childhood.
She was the youngest of several siblings and I remember many Italian relatives; some spoke Italian only and some spoke English, but the words weren’t important. There were cousins, aunts and uncles and friends who came and they just loved us because they knew we were her grandchildren. Several of these relatives brought my sisters and me gifts, often handmade crochet, and special candies every year. She took us on walks through her Italian neighborhood and we often visited neighbors. Everybody was always happy to see her and her grandchildren. We were treated with love and celebrated not because of who we were – but because we were hers.
– Cathy Girardeau