Most Mother’s Day weekends we focus on our moms. But this year finds me thinking about my mom’s mom. After all, without my maternal grandmother, my mother would never have been born.  And come to think of it, neither would I.

Olga Birkeland was an amazing woman. She grew up on a farm in Keyport (Kitsap County) the second oldest of twelve children. Olga was not able to go beyond second grade because she was needed at home to help raise her siblings. Nonetheless, this daughter of Norwegian immigrants exhibited impressive mental acuity.

She taught herself how to play the piano, guitar and harmonica. A special memory I have is watching her play the guitar and harmonica at the same time with a harness around her neck. One of the songs she used to sing was entitled “The Little Soldier Boy.” This Civil War ballad told the story of a mother who welcomed a war orphan into her home after her own son was killed in battle. As she sang, I could picture my grandmother as the mother in the song. She had that kind of heart.

Olga’s faith was important to her from a young age. When two of her sisters died in their twenties, Olga found the means to navigate her grief by turning to God. It was through her church that she met an immigrant logger from Norway ten years her senior. Together Olga and Gunder raised three children to know and love the Lord. They concluded dinner every night with Bible reading and prayer. Their son became a minister and their two daughters married ministers. And as you might deduce, one of her grandsons became one, too.

Yes, faith was important to my grandmother. So was physical fitness. She was ahead of her time when it came to diet and exercise. She frequented her local health food store for vitamin supplements, wheat germ and natural sweeteners. No coffee for Nana. She preferred Postum (a cereal-based beverage) and Carrot Annie (raw carrot juice that she blended with honey and spices). She was a devoted disciple of Jack LaLanne with whom she worked out virtually via her black and white television.

And speaking of health, Nana insisted that visitors to her home (in which my grandfather had his office) not smoke. I still can picture the handmade sign near the front door that read “Tabacco is a filthy weed and from the devil doth proceed. It picks your pockets, burns your clothes and makes a chimney of your nose.”

 Nonetheless my nana was one of the kindest and most humble people I have ever met. I never heard her put anyone down. The worst thing she said about someone with whom she had difficulty was “They’re just a little bit different, that’s all!”

As I reflect on the qualities in my mom that I most admired, I recognize where they came from. My grandmother modeled for my mother a love for the Creator, a love for music and an appreciation of people. Like a runner in an Olympic relay race, Olga handed off the baton of meaningful qualities in such a way that my mom easily grasped them.

Sadly, my grandmother not only passed on memorable traits, she also conveyed to my mom a non-memorable quality. Dementia. Both of the women who shaped my early life eventually found themselves lost in the shadowlands of memory loss. And yet even when declining mental health robbed them of the past, I could look beyond the confusion of the present moment and see their loving hearts.

This weekend is a wonderful opportunity to honor your mom if she is still living. It’s a great chance to celebrate her memory if she isn’t. But why not take it a step further and recognize the contribution your mother’s mom played in her life (and indirectly in yours)? Leaf through some family albums. Share memories with your grandkids that you have of your grandmother. If possible, visit her grave.

I plan to blend some Carrot Annie and toast my Nana’s memory  for her contribution to my life.