Three concrete steps rose from the street to my great-grandmother’s house. The porch sagged a bit, but it was sturdy enough to hold wobbly rockers where we strung green beans from her garden. Mollie Sparks never complained about her porch, the rickety chairs or the shattered dreams life had handed her.

She was a petite powerhouse—standing under five feet tall and weighing a mere 88 pounds—but she was not to be underestimated. 

A devout Baptist, Mollie never missed a church service. When she wasn’t at First Baptist, she was quilting, canning, hoeing, cooking or cleaning. The word “impossible” didn’t exist in her vocabulary, not even after her husband was killed in a sawmill accident shortly before their last child was born.

As a child, I thought my great-grandmother would never die. Death couldn’t possibly touch someone so mighty. Surely some people were meant to stay forever, and she was one.

I realized I might be wrong one Sunday morning. My grandmother—whom I humorously called Grandpa—was walking Mollie (her mother) to the car for church. When they reached the concrete steps, Grandpa took her arm.

“Mama, let’s slowly navigate these old steps so you won’t fall,” she said.

I expected for Mollie to slap her silly, but instead she replied, “Thank you, honey, I reckon I could use the help.”

Later that day, Grandpa pulled me aside.

“Lynn, why do you seem so sad?”

Through tears I blurted, “Grandpa, I am never helping you down the stairs—never!”

Shocked, she asked, “Why?”

“Because if I help you like you helped your mother, it means you’re old. And I don’t want you to grow old and die.”

She held me close without a word, understanding what I had only just begun to grasp: one day, she would be gone.

Years passed, and so did Grandmother Sparks. Eventually Grandpa reached her 90s. On a shopping trip in town, I instinctively reached for her arm as we faced a steep set of steps.

She quickly pulled her arm away.  

“Grandpa, why don’t you let me help you?” I asked.

“You once told me you’d never help me down the stairs because it meant I was near death, and you couldn’t bear it,” she reminded me.

I smiled, remembering the moment when I first learned even giants fall to time. Grandpa lived another six years before climbing the staircase to heaven.

Last holiday season, I was talking with my college-aged granddaughter and her Aunt Amy. Amy asked if I thought I’d live as long as Grandpa.

“I doubt it,” I said, “but I’d like to live as long as my father.”

“How old was he when he died?” my granddaughter Avery asked.

“Eighty-five.”

Avery’s eyes widened as she quickly did the math and realized that wasn’t too many years away. 

“Grandma, that can’t happen! I need you to be here when I have children!”

In that moment she realized what I once did—that my life would eventually end.

When we love someone deeply, it’s hard to imagine the day their voices fall silent, their embrace is gone and we’re left to climb life’s staircase alone. Yet life teaches us to appreciate the sagging porches, the wobbly rockers, and the people who sit in them.

The real question is not how long we live, but how we navigate life: Do we cherish the beauty of everyday moments? Do we leave stories worth retelling? Do we ask for support when the steps grow steep?

Death is certain, but life is choice. If we live each day as if it were our last, tomorrow—if we’re given it—will surely be better.

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