A Thank You to Dorothy and Church Ladies

This past weekend, we said goodbye to my grandma-in-law, Dorothy, who passed away at the remarkable age of 101. When I first met the matriarch of my husband’s family nearly two decades ago, she was stoic yet candid—a hardworking woman who possessed an unshakable resilience, and had a stubborn streak balanced by her warm smiles and laughter, especially when surrounded by her great-grandchildren. She adored her family and was incredibly proud of her children and grandchildren.

Over her century of life, Dorothy’s sharp mind began to fade in her final years, but I’ll always hold onto one of our last conversations. We sat together, enjoying her impossibly thin and delicious sugar cookies as she reminisced about cherished road trips across the United States with her late husband, Casmer. Dorothy was truly one of a kind.

Her funeral was held in a small-town Catholic church in rural Minnesota. It brought a wave of nostalgia, as just across the road stood the Lutheran church where my dad grew up and where I spent countless Christmases, Easters, and family baptisms as a little girl.

I have such love for these small, unassuming churches—the kind with chilly interiors to save energy, walls adorned with stained-glass windows, simple crucifixes at the altar, and well-worn carpets that carry decades of families’ presence. They feel like home, steeped in stories if only the walls could speak.

The funeral was a heartfelt tribute to a life well-lived, honoring Dorothy’s legacy. With my husband serving as a pallbearer and most of the immediate family heading to the cemetery, I took our three young children downstairs to the church hall for lunch.

There, familiar scenes awaited: tables set with lemonade, coffee, and a buffet of quintessential church fare—hotdishes, cookie salads, pickles, and ham sandwiches with butter spread on white buns. It was like stepping into my childhood at the Lutheran church across the road. The faithful women bustling in the kitchen, serving with their time and gifts. They felt like family though I’d never met them.

Amid this comforting scene, I found myself juggling three picky eaters unfamiliar with the traditional potluck spread. As I turned to help my older boys, I glanced over to see my 20-month-old climbing onto a table, reaching for a pitcher of lemonade. Being divided into two places, one of the kind kitchen ladies came to my rescue.

She offered to help, and though I initially declined, I quickly reconsidered and asked if she could assist my older boys. With a warm smile, she asked, “Are they hotdish kids?” I laughed and admitted, “Not really.” Sensing their hesitation, she gently guided them through the line, poured their lemonade, and even grabbed extra napkins for us.

In that moment, as a mother often juggling much, her kindness felt like a lifeline. I thought of Dorothy.

I could so easily picture her, decades ago, doing the same - cooking, setting tables for those in grief, and extending a helping hand to a mother like me. She would have scooped up my youngest to free my arms without a second thought.

To Dorothy and the church ladies in kitchens everywhere: thank you. Thank you for your quiet service, your warm smiles, and your instinct to step in when we need it most. You carry on a tradition and legacy of love and care that feels like home. You are home. And for that, I am endlessly grateful.