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| The Gift of Time |
But life, as it often does, had plans that didn’t care about schedules.
It started with a voicemail from her mother. “Hey sweetie, I hate to ask, but Grandma's not doing well. The doctors say it’s time she’s not alone anymore. Can you come down? I know you’re busy, but... it’s important.”
Monica stared at the message for days before calling back. “Just a few weeks,” she told herself. “I’ll work remotely, check in on Grandma, and be back in the city before the next big campaign launches.”
She packed her designer suitcase and flew to Oakridge, the small southern town where she’d spent summers as a child. It had been years since she’d stepped into her grandmother’s creaky old farmhouse, filled with the scent of lavender and memories. Time seemed slower there. Softer.
Her grandmother, Miss Lillian Grant, was 84 and frail, but her spirit remained sharp.
“Well, look who the wind blew in,” she smiled weakly from her recliner. “You’ve been running so fast, baby, I’m surprised you remembered how to stop.”
Monica offered a tight smile. “I’m here now, Grandma. Just for a little while.”
Miss Lillian chuckled softly, then added, “You know, when I get overwhelmed, I still go to my little prayer chair and talk to the Lord. Been doing that since before your mama was born.”
Monica smiled politely, unsure how to respond. She’d left prayer behind somewhere between boardroom deals and airport lounges.
But a little while turned into something more.
At first, Monica tried to keep her usual routine—emails by dawn, Zoom calls by noon, and reports by night. But the rural Wi-Fi had its own plans. Dropped connections. Frozen screens. Missed meetings. Frustrated, Monica slammed her laptop shut one evening and sighed loudly. “Unbelievable.”
Miss Lillian, sitting nearby, looked up from her knitting. “You know, sugar, when you were little, you used to run around this house barefoot, chasing fireflies and laughing like nothing in the world could touch you.”
“I don’t have time for fireflies anymore,” Monica muttered.
“That’s the problem,” her grandmother replied softly.
Over the next few days, Monica began waking up later. She’d cook breakfast—actual food, not protein bars—and sit with her grandmother by the window, watching the morning light dance on the porch. They talked. About the weather. About old memories. About nothing—and everything.
As the days turned into weeks, Monica found herself immersed in a world she had long forgotten. She helped her grandmother tend to the garden, feeling the earth between her fingers and the sun on her face. She listened to Miss Lillian's stories of youth, love, and loss, realizing there was a depth to her grandmother she had never truly seen before.
One afternoon, as they sat on the porch swing, rocking gently back and forth, Miss Lillian turned to Monica with a knowing smile. "You know, child, life ain't just about the hustle and bustle. Sometimes you gotta slow down and appreciate the beauty right in front of you."
Monica felt a pang of guilt wash over her. All this time, she had been chasing success and validation, thinking it was the key to happiness. But here, in Oakridge, surrounded by simplicity and love, she found a peace she had been missing for so long.
One afternoon, as they shelled peas together in the backyard, Miss Lillian chuckled. “Remember when you tried to cook dinner for me when you were seven?”
Monica laughed. “I set the kitchen towels on fire trying to boil water.”
“That you did,” her grandmother grinned. “But you were so proud. You brought me toast and a slice of cheese on a plate like it was a five-star meal.”
Monica smiled. “You ate every bite.”
“Because it wasn’t about the food,” Miss Lillian said, her voice turning tender. “It was about your heart.”
That night, Monica sat alone on the porch, staring at the stars. For the first time in years, she realized how long it had been since she’d slowed down enough to look up.
Every day became more valuable as she spent time with her grandmother. She mastered baking sweet potato pie exactly the way Miss Lillian preferred. She also assisted in watering the roses her grandfather had planted many years before. They even enjoyed playing dominoes together on Sunday afternoons, just like in the past.
In the stillness of Oakridge, Monica began to hear again—not just the birds, or the ticking of the old clock, but the echo of her own soul.
One evening, Miss Lillian didn’t come down for dinner. Monica found her asleep in her chair, a Bible open on her lap. She gently knelt beside her.
“You okay, Grandma?”
Miss Lillian slowly opened her eyes. "Just feeling tired, sweetheart," she said, giving her hand a gentle pat.
Monica’s hand felt the warmth of her grandmother's touch, a soft and gentle pat, a reminder of the love and connection between them.
Monica helped her to bed, tucked her in, and sat by her side. The air was thick with emotion.
“You’ve changed,” Miss Lillian whispered, brushing Monica’s cheek.
Monica nodded. “I didn’t know how much I was missing… until I came here.”
Miss Lillian reached for her hand. “Time is a gift, Monica. You can chase success your whole life, but it won’t hold your hand when you’re old. It won’t pray with you. It won’t remember how your laugh sounds. But people will.”
Tears welled in Monica’s eyes. “I thought I was giving up time by coming here,” she said. “But I was actually gaining it.”
Miss Lillian smiled faintly, and that night, she slept peacefully.
A week later, Miss Lillian passed away in her sleep.
In the days that followed, the house felt quieter, the silences heavier. Monica found herself moving through the rooms with care, as if her grandmother’s presence still lingered in every corner. There was grief, yes—but also gratitude. Gratitude for the time they’d shared and the healing it had brought.
The funeral was small but filled with love, the townspeople coming together to honor the life of Miss Lillian Grant. Monica stood beside her grandmother's grave, tears streaming down her face as she whispered a final goodbye. Memories flooded her—sipping coffee on the porch in the morning, singing in the kitchen, and the wise advice shared in quiet moments.
After the service, she stayed in Oakridge. Not out of obligation, but out of calling. She took a sabbatical from work. Started volunteering at the community center. Planted a garden in her grandmother’s memory. And every evening, she sat on the porch, just like they used to.
Her phone rang one morning—her boss, asking when she’d return.
“I’m not sure yet,” she said, her voice calm. “I’m discovering something here. Something important.”
In the months that followed, Monica remained in Oakridge. She kept the garden blooming, just like Miss Lillian used to. She opened the front porch to neighbors who needed someone to talk to. Some days, she’d find herself baking sweet potato pie and setting out two plates, out of habit and love.
She didn’t need a grand plan. The house itself had become a place of peace—one quiet moment at a time.
Sometimes, when someone passing through town would sit with her for a while, Monica would share her story. “I used to think success was measured in numbers,” she’d say, her eyes soft. “But I’ve learned it’s really measured in moments—those quiet, sacred seconds where love lives.”
And in that little farmhouse, Monica Carson chose to slow down. Not because she had to. But because Miss Lillian taught her the secret: Time is not something to manage. It’s something to cherish.
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