Ode to My Grandmother

Sermon 402 Woodlawn Funeral Home (Nashville) 7/14/25

This is the eulogy I gave for my grandmother, who died at the ripe old age of 95.

I knew that we were always going to be back here, but I wasn’t looking forward to that day. It would mark the closing of an era. It is the end of a beautiful chapter in all our lives. In so many ways, our family’s life has revolved around the homestead of Donald and Ruth Dorris.

It is undeniable the warmth that home has offered to so many of us as we’ve gathered there to celebrate holidays and events throughout the years. And GranMommy was at the center of it all. And by that, I don’t mean she was the center of attention, but she was the anchor of all those gatherings.

There were always different things happening around the house, but the main event was in the living room around her. You could come and go, but our nights began and ended around her. When my grandfather would pick me up from school, he would ask me, “Are you ready to go to GranMommy’s house?” Even he knew whose house it really was.

And so, Ruth Dorris was the anchor of our family, and I don’t think she fully realized it. She certainly appreciated being a priority, but I doubt she thought of herself as central to our family as she truly was (and is). She just wanted to be with those she loved and those who loved her back—it was as simple as that.  

My grandmother’s life was marked by simplicity, and I use that term in the best sense. She was not extravagant. As long as she had her hair done and a bright, colorful shirt on, I think she was pretty happy. She was content with the small things, not needing much to find joy.

In a world of consumerism that tells us we always need more to be fulfilled, to visit more places, to buy more things, and to promote ourselves on every social platform, my grandmother’s life stands in stark contrast. You can find contentment if you have your priorities in order, and she most certainly did.

I think it also comes from the fact that she had a humble beginning. When asked about her early days, she would usually say she didn’t remember much. Years ago, to jog her memory, I gave her a prompt: think about water; whatever came to mind, she would write it down. Here are a few of her memories.

“We had to go down to a spring about ¼ mile down from the house, and bring water for drinking, washing, etc. Then my dad dug a cistern, [the] water wasn’t as good to drink.”

“In the winter, water froze in the kitchen. No heat in there until mom got up and built a fire in the cook stove.”

“We moved to a house on my uncle’s farm, about 2 miles away, prettiest place we ever lived, a creek ran behind. I was 12-13.”

Though she had humble beginnings, she looked back at her childhood with fondness. Going on a walk with her sisters, they came across a pond and decided to jump in and go swimming. The only catch was that no one knew how to swim. Thankfully, nobody drowned that day.

She recalled when she was about 8 years old, her daddy (whom she adored) took her into town and bought her a beautiful pink dress. Neither of them noticed the Dry Clean Only tag attached to it. It instantly shrunk in the wash, and she has been thinking about that dress ever since. 

She dreamed of life outside of the country while working at the dime store for $3 a week. She would watch people as they passed by, and think about what else was out there—contentment apparently came later in life. 

As God would have it, Donald Dorris was part of her ticket to the better life she envisioned. He had nabbed the prettiest girl in Robertson County, and the life they built centered around their family. They had their hands full with four girls, and we all know that Ruth Dorris was the one who kept the house going: ensuring there were meals on the table, the girls were clothed, and out the door for school. She had a lot on her shoulders.

Of course, it was her cooking that so many of us remember. We will all tell you that Ruth blessed us with her Southern Comfort cooking over the years. And we kept coming to West Iris Drive because she kept cooking. It was her love language, and a part of her gift of hospitality.

Another one of her gifts that we will all miss is her humor. Gosh, she was quick (sometimes pointedly direct, if I might say), but she was also willing to make fun of herself.

She recalled one story from way back when by saying, “When one of my children was in school on White Bridge Road, I went to K Mart and told the man I needed a small pool for my daughter, who liked to sit in the water when she came home for lunch. He said, ‘How old is your daughter?’ I said, ‘21.’” The woman was downright funny.

But in the end, Ruth Dorris is known and remembered for her love. She was a mother to all of us, asking us questions about ourselves, wanting to hear about our travels, and what we were learning.

Although it was never an official policy that the grandkids needed to bring their significant others to meet GranMommy, it always seemed to happen that way. We wanted people who were important to us to meet our grandmother, and vice versa. Her opinion carried a lot of weight.

The same gravitational pull that brought the family together was also what drew us to invite others to experience it. That’s what we call love.

There is nothing like a mother’s love. An example of this came a few years ago. GranMommy told me that Anita had been having nightmares, and she kept praying to God that God would take them away from Anita and give them to her instead. She never stopped loving and worrying about her kids. Like Ruth from the Bible, who showed Naomi loyal love when things got tough, our Ruth was known for her love and her quiet but unceasing devotion to God.

Her daughters reciprocated that generous love over these past few years. You all returned the blessing with your selfless dedication. I’m convinced she lived much longer because she was surrounded by y’all, in her own home. It was no easy task, but y'all did it faithfully.

I’ve got a theory that parents will model how they expect to be cared for later in life by how they care for their parents. Oh boy. To the sisters, you have set a high bar. Well done, good and faithful servants.

But it’s also okay to say these past few years have been tough. To me, the blessing of old age seems to be that you get to see a lot. You are granted more time with those you love, which in her case, meant she got to see her daughters more, spend a lot of time holding hands with her grandchildren, and meet two great-granddaughters. She was able to see the legacy continue into the next generation. She cherished this extra time.

The curse of old age seems to be that you have to say goodbye to so many family and friends who pass on before you. It’s a lonely experience being at the front of the line, and sadly, over the last year and a half, she really felt her body give out on her.

Long gone were the days of her evening walks by herself around the neighborhood, and only once did I ever see her run. I accidentally knocked one of her flowerpots over in the front yard with the mower, and she came running out the door to pick it up.

Through her physical decline, she remained thankful to those who cared for her, and when she was “with it,” her wit still shone through. But it all took its toll on her. She was ready to go home. She was ready to run towards the light. 

Both our reading from Romans and the Gospel of John point us to a hope that transcends the realities of this world. There is light and life that has broken through the darkness of sin and death. They have been vanquished by the One who created all things, and holy is his name.  

And this Holy God is ruled by his love for his creation. He created all things out of the abundance of his love, and Paul reminds us that absolutely nothing in all of creation can separate us in this life (or the life to come) from the true lover of our souls.

Though our bodies grow weak, we don’t lose value in the sight of God. He sees us in our weakness, and he loves us all the more. He is our Good Shepherd, who guides us through the mountains and valleys of this life until we reach our destination.

Jesus said he was the way, the truth, and the life, and so Jesus is the path, and he is the destination. It is with him that we journey on this earthly pilgrimage, and it is into his loving arms that we run when this life is over.

Ruth Dorris knew this deep in her bones. She loved her Lord and believed with all her heart that something better was waiting for her on the other side of the grave. She held onto this hope throughout her life, and even at the end, she knew she was a beloved child of God.

There is always more with Jesus. More life, more love, more than what our finite minds can begin to imagine. All Jesus asks of us is to have faith; faith that there is more than what meets the eye; faith that death does not have the final say over us or those we love but see no longer; faith that even at the grave we can make our song Alleluia because this is not the end but the beginning.

Death has been swallowed up by life, and the faint sound of resurrection is beginning to play just in the distance. To her, that song of resurrection probably sounded like it came from Alan Jackson’s voice, but that’s neither here nor there.

She has been restored, made strong once again by her Good Shepherd who loves her without end, and who loves us even in our grief. He knows what it is to lose someone you love, and he knows what it’s like to die. But his love has carved a path into even more life, and the promise of resurrection.

We mourn because this loss hurts. This is the end of a wonderful chapter for us, but the beginning of something even more glorious for her.

I’ve kept imagining the scene in my head of GranMommy being greeted in Heaven by Granddaddy, and after softly taking her hand, he looks at her and says, “Hello Ruth, welcome home. I’ve got someone who has been waiting to see you. Come along.”