There are people who walk this earth quietly.
And then there are those whose very presence alters the air around them.
My grandmother belonged to the second kind.
Not ordinary. Never ordinary.
She moved through life with the certainty of someone heaven-trained.
Her faith was not soft or polite —
it was fierce, like a sword carved in fire.
And her spirit… her spirit was like the wind:
unseen, unstoppable, unmistakably there.
Faith? Whew. She had faith.
Strong, unshakable faith.
The kind that makes you stop and question,
“Is she for real?”
The kind that bends reality and pulls heaven closer.
From now until Christmas, I will tell her story in chapters —
the story of the woman who prayed kingdoms open,
who shielded her bloodline with her voice,
and who carried the Sacred Heart of Jesus like a mantle.
This is the chronicle of Alice —
from the eyes of her first granddaughter — Oyamare
Alice, daughter of a Chief,
pillar of an entire lineage,
and the closest we ever came
to encountering an angel who walked this earth.
I was my grandparents’ favourite — on both sides.
Not because I was extraordinary, but because I was the baby everyone thought wouldn’t survive. And my grandma never let me forget the miracle she believed saved me: St. Jude’s intercession.
She was devoted to many things, but above all to the promises she made to the Sacred Heart of Jesus long before any of us were born. She crowned Him King of our home, and honestly, that’s why order and hierarchy ran deep in our family. Children had rights, parents had authority, and grandparents… they were gods walking around in human flesh.
My grandmother was an institution. A force.
She always asked for her grandchildren in church. We never understood why she insisted, but my parents dared not refuse. And every single time we arrived — no matter how well dressed we thought we were — it was never enough. Clothes were swapped instantly to her approved standard, and then straight to the front pew.
(Please don’t judge me — that’s why I hate front rows now. I lived there my whole childhood.)
And then came the consecrations, the enthronements, the medals.
While other kids were collecting academic awards, I wasn’t nearly as brilliant as my brother — but I collected Catholic medals like a walking holy supermarket. Every kind, every colour, every devotion. It became so much that we stopped taking them home; we started depositing them with Grandma for storage. I think I only stopped wearing a scapular as a working professional.
Because to her, stepping out of the house without a scapular (plus rosary) meant the devil’s hands could grab you immediately. And we were certainly not the devil’s portion — so we wore everything. Faithfully.
One day I’ll tell the full story…
Yours with love and memory,
