My grandmother may have been gone, but she still continued to send me comfort...

I was a grown man when my grandmother Amanda Miller died, but it felt like I had lost a parent. That’s how close we were, especially when I was little. “Ray,” she used to say as we toasted marshmallows on long silver forks over her old cook stove, “you are the apple of my eye!”

In our big, unruly family, Grandma made me feel special and loved. For a good while I felt a sadness I just couldn’t shake, as if her love had died with her. You should be able to get over this, I chided myself.

It wasn’t like me, dwelling on the past, all the hours I’d spent with Grandma while she read me stories from the Bible. Grandma had taught me about faith, yet that too seemed to be fading.

One day my wife Verona and I went to a lumberyard a ways outside town for some moulding. On the drive back I realized I’d forgotten finishing nails. We were headed for the nearest town to find a hardware store when Verona spotted a yard sale.

I don’t much like all that musty stuff, but for some reason I stopped. While we were poking around I came across a set of grimy old forks; long-handled silver ones. We’ll use these to roast marshmallows with the kids, I thought. Just like I did with Grandma.

That night as I washed the forks, my heartfelt lighter and I thanked the Lord for bringing me a bit of comfort. When I rubbed away the grime though, I knew they were more than just a couple of yard-sale finds.

There on the handles, under years of tarnish, were the initials A. M.—Amanda Miller. These were my Gramma’s forks.