by Annette Lyon
I first met Grandma Lyon a month or two before her grandson proposed to me. She was newly widowed, and we’d come up to Idaho to visit her. Even though we’d never met, she gave me a big hug and a kiss and then whispered, “All the girls my grandsons date have to pass my test.”

When we left two days later, she kissed me again and whispered, “You passed.”

By marrying that grandson, I gained her as a grandmother. All of my own grandparents had passed away long ago, and I only ever got to know two of them—and while I was still pretty young and they were aging. Gaining a new grandmother was a joy. She was a small woman from the South with a halo of white hair, a feisty spirit, and a taste for good Southern cooking.

Some of her advice was dated—I never did feed my babies bacon, and I never worried that a cat might steal their breath—but in the areas that mattered, she was a giant among women—and men—and I stood in awe of her.

Grandma Lyon wasn’t the average woman from her generation. A piece of paper found in a back room of her house bore evidence of that: a proselytizing license from her mission. It hailed from the days when there were so few sister missionaries that the Church didn’t yet print licenses with female pronouns. Hers had “he” and “Elder” crossed out and then “she” and “Sister” hand-written in their places. After her mission, she went to college, graduated, and then taught elementary school. Unlike most of her contemporaries, she didn’t marry until her late thirties. When she did, she devoted her life to her husband and four children.

Her mind remained sharp until the day she died at the age of 92—largely, I suspect, because she never stopped using her mind, reading and solving puzzles and discussing current events to the end. But it was her devotion to the Gospel of Jesus Christ and to temple work that always stood out for me.

Once while visiting her, most of the family headed out to visit other relatives while I stayed behind with a napping baby and Grandma. As she and I chatted in the living room, the conversation turned to me raptly listening to her recount story after story about her genealogy and submitting names to the temple.

Shortly after her husband’s death, one of her daughters insisted she come to live with her two states away. Telling me of that time, Grandma just shook her head. “I couldn’t do it. I know I’m old, but there are spirits in this house all the time pestering me to get their work done. I can’t leave.”

After she passed away, family members received copies of her personal history. It had stories I’d never heard before. In addition to the interesting bits about her childhood in Florida, she told of amazing spiritual experiences and miracles coupled with intense trials. Through it all, her abiding testimony of her Savior, Jesus Christ came through.

Grandma had a passion for family, both past and present. Every time we visited, she made sure to cuddle and hold our children—and to get pictures taken with them so they’d remember. She counted her great-grandchildren as one would count pieces of treasure. Shortly before her death, we told her that we were expecting another child, a girl, and said how we were excited for them to meet.

Knowing she was nearing the end of her mortal journey, Grandma said, “If I don’t get to meet her here, I’ll send her down.”

And I believe she did. Grandma passed away shortly before our daughter was born—whom we named after her.

Grandma Lyon died seven years ago. Though she and I share no blood, her influence on me remains.
When facing my own trials, I think of her endurance and faith. I picture how she continued on faithfully during her many single years when her life wasn’t going as she expected—or how others expected a woman’s life to go. I find strength in her ability to remain unshaken during adversity. I strive to emulate her ability to be cheerful and happy even when times are rough.

After I finish my mortal test and pass into the next life, I hope I’ll be worthy of having Grandma Lyon meet me, of having her once again cradle my cheeks in her thin hands and hearing her whisper, “You passed.”