My grandma would have been 99 in September. She made it to April 22, outliving Pope Francis by one day. She was never his biggest fan.
The arc of Grandma’s political universe was the half-century push to overturn Roe v. Wade (she was 95 when it finally happened). As someone who turned on the GOP following the invasion of Iraq and thought America would surely be just fine with electing a Black president, I had not shared her ideological affiliation for decades by then. But we ultimately never talked about our political differences.
I’m incredibly grateful to have had the gift of a grandmother for over four decades of life. We filled those years with piano lessons, family gatherings, and a model of what it means to be devoted to one’s Catholic faith. I still prominently display the crucifix she and Grandpa gifted me for my First Communion. I was her last hope for a priest in the family. If she prayerfully dedicated me to the church at birth, as the rumor went, I guess she should have been more specific.
Grandma was a daily Mass-goer, as well as a political reactionary going back to Phyllis Schlafly’s 1970s battle to stop the Equal Rights Amendment. The Catholic Church and Republican politics—they were inseparable in her world.
Honestly, I learned a lot about living my values from her. My earliest awareness of politics came from watching her and Grandpa following the news of the day. My activism would eventually play out along a different axis from theirs but not at first. My upbringing was ingrained with the ethos of the prolife movement, the idea that the moral concern of abortion superseded all others. That translated into the singular policy goal of illegalizing abortion.
In her 98 years, Grandma witnessed a century beset by change, change she often fought ardently. It’s difficult for me to imagine the vast cultural leaps from life on an Indiana farm in the 1920s, to Midwestern suburbia in the 1950s, to our sailing between artificial intelligence and President Donald Trump in the 2020s. Perhaps that is at least a partial reason why a straightlaced young woman might turn to a reactionary worldview. But my understanding turns to sadness and anger when I realize it didn’t need to be that way, that for decades she was surrounded by horrible influences.
It began with Phyllis Schlafly and the achievement of getting Reagan elected in 1980. Then came the ’90s and Rush Limbaugh, the new millennium and Fox News. On the religious side, EWTN was there to shape her view of her church, even as it sowed seeds of suspicion between laypeople and church leadership. I wish I had told her assertively that she was being lied to.
We could always lean into our shared interests: music, to be sure, but primarily matters of faith and the church. Gossip from the local diocese was often on the menu. During the Benedict XVI years, we discussed a pope seven months her junior whom she admired and related to greatly.
While our differences were reflective of the current U.S. culture war, it was easier for me to view them as generational. The postwar suburban existence—and the pre-conciliar church—defined themselves by appearances. The worry of giving rise to scandal and fearing what the neighbors would say were analogous. Marrying a Lutheran was a disaster. A teen pregnancy was apocalyptic. But by the time I married an unbaptized person, she’d seen everything else.
As a grandson seeking to please, I tried to build a bridge as someone who’d stuck with our Catholic religion but also saw how it could be harmonized with the present day. Grandma’s Fatima apocalypticism was never my speed. When Sister Lucia the visionary said the final battle would be fought over marriage and family, opponents of LGBTQ+ rights assumed they would be on the side of good. I have serious doubts about that.
I recognize now that my refusal to challenge her was also rooted in the fear of somehow severing the relationship, just as she feared an angry God.
Grandma’s religious and political rigidity sparked numerous family fallouts through the years. Family members became estranged at various turns. Others engaged in decades-long theological and political debate. The fallout eventually came for me, in late 2024. As I contemplated the fact that my kids and I would (presumably) live far longer with Trump 2.0 and its aftermath than Grandma ever would, my anger came to the fore.
My phone calls and visits dropped off to nothing for several months. At the time, I could feel the cruel edge of this omission, but as the “good grandson,” I felt it was important for her to know her political choices had ramifications for her as well. When I did go back, there were sad pauses in the conversation where politics would otherwise go. I nonchalantly mentioned my wife’s employer losing its grant money; she spoke generally of the importance of growing in trust of God through prayer. I’m not sure if she made the connection or not.
Settling into life without a grandma, the questions bubble up: Did I not respect her intelligence for never addressing that her favorite media sources and politicians were lying to her, constantly and with impunity? I’m not sure it would have made a difference. But I hold onto hope that we’ll get to sort it out eventually, just not in this life.
A nurse cousin who tended to Grandma shared with me that, during her final days, she didn’t once say the oft-implored, “It’s my time” or “I’m ready to go.” No, as this devout woman’s body slowly wound down to the end, she was still afraid to go before her God, whom she’d internalized from an early age as harsh and vengeful. It was striking to realize the power that image still held over her.
I recognize now that my refusal to challenge her was also rooted in the fear of somehow severing the relationship, just as she feared an angry God. I realize how silly that was of me, to think a grandmother could ever stop loving. And my hope is that Grandma’s face-to-face encounter with a merciful God laid bare that her fears were groundless. Nothing can break that love.
I recently noticed I’ve been praying to her when dealing with difficult people in my life. Her scorched-earth culture warrior side divided our family in life, but in eternity, every part of her can serve as she intercedes for those she loves—perhaps even throwing a glorified elbow here and there. I just hope she wasn’t too annoyed to find Pope Francis among those there to welcome her.
This article also appears in the September 2025 issue of U.S. Catholic (Vol. 90, No. 9, pages 43-44). Click here to subscribe to the magazine.
Image: Unsplash/Vitaly Gariev
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