Six years ago, my grandma Grace and I had a huge fight. She wanted me to go to church with her, but I said no. I was stubborn, tired of her pushing. That was the last conversation we ever had. Shortly after, she passed.
When her will was read, my heart sank. She left everything—her house, savings, even her beloved garden—to her church. All I got was her old, worn Bible and a small note, handwritten: “OPEN IT WHEN IT’S HARD.”
I was furious. Bills were piling up, stress crushing me, and here was this Bible, a reminder of our last fight. I tossed it aside, but the weight of those words nagged at me. Finally, one night, I sat down and opened it.
As I flipped through the pages, tucked inside was a folded letter in Grandma’s familiar handwriting. My hands trembled as I unfolded it.
“My dearest,” it began, “I know we didn’t see eye to eye, and I’m sorry if I made you feel pressured or unloved. This Bible has been my anchor through storms I never told you about. Inside, you’ll find notes I wrote in the margins—prayers, hopes, and strength for when life feels unbearable.”
I started reading her notes—scriptures highlighted next to personal reflections about courage, forgiveness, and faith during her darkest days. She had faced her own battles with illness, loss, and fear, often alone. She wanted me to have the same strength she found in these pages.
Tears blurred my vision. I realized her love was never conditional. It was there, patiently waiting beneath my anger, waiting for me to find it.
That night, with her Bible in my lap, I felt something shift inside me—a fragile hope growing, whispering that maybe, just maybe, healing was possible.