It was my Grandma who taught me to kneel. When the cousins gathered at her home for week long Grandma Camp, she would come into our rooms at night and have us kneel with her beside the bed to pray. She didn't pray in any rote or sterile way that I can remember, but she was not flashy and the posture if anything of her life was a faithful one. Grandma taught me to put a worm on a hook, to love the wild Lake Michigan shore especially when the wind was fierce, to make my bed neatly and always respect her rules, to stop for ice cream in town, and to sometimes eat lunch under the table. She was and is pretty no-nonsense, straightforward, and incredibly sweet and loving. She has shown me to the degree that she has lived it, what a surrendered life can look like: not depressing or shackled, but certainly faithful and dutiful. I come from a line of dutiful people, and while sometimes the part of me that falls in that vein can battle against living out of a lifeless, joyless place, the part that has been strengthened by the likes of Grandma feels like the hope of a small sapling growing into a sturdy, elegant oak. That surrender, that faceless knees to the ground submission to the Goodness of God, looked like the love for every growing thing in my Grandma's garden, a face lit up by the sight of one of her birds alighting for a visit, the fleshy squeeze every time she sees me and the steady presence of her perfume, her chickadee laugh, her meticulous cleaning, the church she never gave up on because she served imperfect people but a worthy God, and the knees at night, flesh to floor; a good surrender.