Grandma Cooper may have been small in stature, standing at just four feet nine inches, but she had a presence that towered over all of us. Like most grandmothers, she had a habit of keeping track of how fast we were growing.
Every visit, without fail, she’d greet us with a remark about how big we were getting. “My, look at you!” she’d say, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Won’t be long before you’re as tall as me!” It didn’t matter if it had been a day, a week, or a year since she’d last seen us—she always noticed.
At first, we’d grin, standing a little taller, feeling both proud and a little sheepish at the attention. And, of course, she was right. Eventually, one by one, we all outgrew Grandma Cooper.
All of us, that is, except Joanne.
Joanne was, and still is, the runt of the family. Among the eight of us, she was the one who never quite caught up in height. Even as an adult, she and Grandma Cooper could look each other straight in the eye.
Grandma, never one to let a moment slip by without a bit of humor, would lean in close to Joanne, her voice just above a whisper. “Jony,” she’d say with a knowing smile, “just remember, dynamite comes in small packages.”
Then, the two of them would burst into laughter, the kind of deep, belly-shaking laughter that made the whole room smile along with them.
Grandma Cooper may have been small, but she was mighty—her love, her wit, and her warmth filling every space she entered. And in that simple phrase, she gave Joanne—and all of us—a reminder that strength isn’t measured in inches.
It’s measured in spirit.
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