Marty. That one name said enough in our circles. At times, she seemed larger than life — especially in the eyes of her oldest grandson. She was “Grandmommy” to me, but when I heard the name Marty in the mouths of family and friends, I knew exactly who that was, and what that meant. Even the ears of a child could hear in those two short syllables the admiration, respect, and love the most important people in my life had for this woman.

She was strong and gentle, tough and tender, deeply principled and wonderfully warm. She was unforgettable for both her serious look and her contagious laugh. She was a go-getter with a backbone, timeless morals, a love for manners (because manners are loving), and a good ole fashioned Protestant work-ethic. And, boy, was she smart.

And she was my grandma.

It wasn’t till years later, as a grown-up living in the frozen tundra of the Great White North, some months after her health had severely declined, that I discovered one of the secrets of my childhood. I was thumbing through an old manila folder I’d labeled “Grandmommy,” its contents mostly short notes she’d mailed during my teen and college years. I came across a 1987 newspaper clipping, which I didn’t remember seeing before. It was from the J.L. Mann High School student paper, honoring English teacher Marty Mathis with the highest of praise, and lamenting her early retirement at age 61. And there it was, buried at the end of the article, a simple line forecasting the inestimable riches I had received for seventeen years:

Mrs. Mathis plans to . . . spend time with her four grandchildren.

I did the quick math. Soon tears filled my eyes. When she taught her final high school class, only 61 years young, I was age six and ripe for the magic of a grandmother. I don’t know what those formative years would have been without her, but I do know how life-shaping, how wonderfully rich they were, with Grandmommy there.

And she was there. Did she ever make good on those retirement plans! There she stands, sometimes in the background, but often front and center, in many of my childhood’s most memorable moments. Yes, there were Reese’s peanut butter cups and the many trips to Toys R Us, but she did so much more than spoil us. She tended tirelessly to the development of our minds, and found ways to make life and learning fun.

Our haunts were the Greenville Zoo and Roper Mountain Science Center. She had audio books ready in the car to make the most of travel time — it was cassette tapes, of course, in those days. I’ll never forget her distinct voice singing along with Rumpelstiltskin, “The spinning wheel goes round and round / It hums and sings its spinning sound . . .” Who needs Mary Poppins for a nanny when you have Marty Mathis for a grandmother? She had all the right spoons and sugars to make the medicines go down. She could spin the wheat straw of ordinary days into golden times with grandma.

And so Devenger, clearly enchanted, had a special allure for her grandchildren. It was the best place on earth, next to Disney, in my childhood estimation. Her home was a haven, where Cherry Coke flowed, a land of spaghetti and chocolate pound cake. At age ten, if I had been asked to produce a list of my most valuable assets, Grandmommy would have been at the top of the list.

At times I’ve wondered whether God appointed her final vocation as Grandmommy especially for me. Nine more grandchildren came, for a total of thirteen. And she had a way of making each of us feel special, each of us the apple of her eye. But in God’s kind providence, somehow I got an extra dose of good timing. She retired when I was six, and her health began to deteriorate not long after I had finished college in Greenville and moved to Minnesota to finally be an adult. And so she stands, without intermission or premature departure, casting her long shadow of grace over all my growing-up, teen, and college years. I can’t get around it — I am who I am today, in significant part, because of Grandmommy.

We Mathises knew our matriarch was unusual, but over the years, a stream of former students emerged to express their gratitude and confirm our suspicions. Many called her “favorite” and “best” and spoke about how she shaped them irrevocably. Some even said they went into teaching because of her. Others spoke of a love for learning and literature they could trace to her classroom. And so her scholastic children arose and called her blessed.

But I’m surprised how many spoke of her winsome faith in Jesus. Not that she was quiet about Christ at home. She was hardly quiet about anything! But the surprise comes in that she taught in the public schools, and her subject was English, not Bible or church history. Yet her greatest allegiance wasn’t learning or literature. It wasn’t even her grandchildren. And so grandchildren, children, and students alike now find relevant, in her honor, those words from the letter to the Hebrews:

Remember your leaders, those who spoke to you the word of God. Consider the outcome of their way of life, and imitate their faith. Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever. (Hebrews 13:7–8)

Her legacy is manifold. One aspect is the joy of learning and the life of the mind. In my small Southern world, full of adults who slurred their words and didn’t care to conjugate, or make subjects agree with verbs, she seamlessly taught the basics of grammar in the classroom of everyday life — a skillset I now draw upon daily as an editor.

Another legacy of hers is that children are to be taken seriously. I have no recollection of her ever ignoring me to check an email and burying her attention in a handheld device. Okay, well, she may want me to point out that to say such a thing is “anachronistic,” but the point remains. I had her undivided attention. I never felt like she was babysitting or just passing the time. She was investing. She was pouring herself and her energy into listening to and engaging with me. Things were never on autopilot till Mom and Pop returned. In all the best senses, she put the parent in grandparent. Her actions spoke the apostle’s words, “I will most gladly spend and be spent for your souls” (2 Corinthians 12:15).

And an essential part of her legacy is that she was never alone. There was Granddaddy Gene. There he was, and there he has been. When I think of Grandmommy’s voice, the one word I hear her saying over and over again, with fondness and great respect, is “Gene.” And when I think of Granddaddy’s voice, it’s “Marty.” And this last decade she was never alone, as Granddaddy stood so faithfully at her side, sacrificing to meet her needs. He moved his life to Spartanburg to see her daily, to fulfill every last ounce of his husbanding covenant, to make good, like few still do, on his promise, “in sickness and in health, till death do us part.” Marty’s legacy will forever be tied to the amazing, unusual, tireless service and faithfulness of her husband. He loved her as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her (Ephesians 5:25).

One final aspect of her legacy is the pointer her earthly life is to that last line from Hebrews: “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever.” Grandmommy’s yesterday, in her golden years as mother of four and grandmother of thirteen, was not the same as this tumultuous last decade of disease; and this last decade is not the same as her forever. Now she knows the Christian’s great intermediary joy: “to depart and be with Christ . . . is far better” (Philippians 1:23) — better to “be away from the body and at home with the Lord” (2 Corinthians 5:8). And very soon she will know, with all who eagerly await his return, what it means to live in the unsurpassed pleasures of a new creation, where sin and sickness, dementia and death, are no more, and every tear is wiped away.

Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever. And Marty will shine like the sun in the kingdom of her Father (Matthew 13:43), along with all who join in her greatest allegiance.