I worship my Grandma. When I was little, I believed she was a Saint. Saint Marie, who God hand-picked to make the world a happy place. I used to try to wrap my head around how God would give her wings if we buried her in the ground when she died. It gave me nightmares. I spent a lot of time with her and my Grandpa as a kid, all my Grandparents for that matter. Blessed. Grandma may have single handedly got me through my parents' divorce. I could talk to her about anything, and still can. As an adult, that now goes both ways and in recent years I've met the woman behind the wrinkles and does she have one hell of a story to tell. Not that she's done living. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Saying I am Catholic is not entirely accurate. On paper, yes. In practice, not really. She, on the other hand, religiously went to mass, gossiped about the congregation, and is still bitter that her least favorite priest baptized me as a baby. When she leaves this world to join m...