My Grandma Epp and I were not that close.

I thought she was this odd old woman with a German accent that was a little too free in speaking her mind about my mom, my other relatives, and me.

As a kid and a young adult, I also thought she gave chintzy Christmas presents. I got cheap dime store toys or handkerchiefs, then later, cheap adult presents like dishtowels.

I probably hadn't seen her in at least fifteen years. I was busy with my own life—law school, family, work, whatever. But I finally saw her this Christmas Eve—at her funeral. She was 91 years old.

So, early Christmas Eve morning, I drove to Hampton, a little central Nebraska farm town surrounded by center pivot irrigated cornfields. I made the trip from Harrisburg via Yankton, my boyhood home. The route from Yankton to Hampton down U.S. 81 then over on U.S. 34 was a well-worn road of memories.

The morning started out cold, cloudy, and monochromatic. A dull gray sky merged with the dull tan snowless fields of northeast Nebraska. Bruce Springsteen's "Greatest Hits" CD blared from my Explorer's speakers, seemingly the only life on a dreary day on mostly deserted roads.

The trip did have its moments of revelry. Cross the great Meridian Bridge over the icy Missouri at Yankton. Zipping past "Wee Town" north of Norfolk. The big Broasted Chicken on the restaurant in Norfolk. The life sized statutes of the Nativity at Stromsburg. The loping curve on U.S. 34 east of Hampton with the grain elevator thrusting from the cornfields that fill it.

I drove past Hampton and on another six miles to Aurora, a town of about 4,300 to meet my father, Rodney. He had stayed over night and met with his family. He wanted me to see the rest home where my grandmother spent her last nine years and meet the people who cared for her.

It was just past noon. The gray had lifted. It was a bright, sun-covered day in Aurora, unseasonably mild for late December. My dad strolled into the Memorial Community Care Center like he had been there a hundred times. A few steps behind him, I enter and notice something—or perhaps didn't notice something. The care home doesn't smell like a care home. It smells fresh, inviting. The décor is tasteful and light. It is a bright place.

My dad waves to staff who knowingly wave back at him. He stops to chat with a few of the aides and jokes with them about eating too much at lunch. I notice artwork—even original paintings on the walls—photos, flowers, TVs, etc. Again, the place smells good, not like most nursing homes, that smell of urine, disinfectant—and death.

My dad had raved about this place and the care my grandmother received. Clean beyond belief, friendly caring staff. Grandma Epp was in good hands.

We met Eldon "Bud" Wall, the administrator. He took a half-hour to show us around the remarkable little hospital and clinic that share the roof with the nursing home. As he introduced us around, my dad and I thanked everyone who had cared for Grandma.

In 21 years of marriage to my wife Donna, a social worker, I have learned from her that you can't be in a caring profession and not care. I knew these people cared. My dad, an even tougher critic, knew they also cared about his mom.

Finally, we left and went to the small Missouri Synod Lutheran Church in Hampton. A little daunted, I followed my dad into the church fellowship hall to see aunts and uncles and cousins that I had seen in over twenty years. I didn't know how I would be received as the "prodigal son."

There was nothing to worry about. Many of my relatives thanked me for making the long trip. I even recognized most of my cousins. As is usually the case, the funeral turned into a family reunion. My cousins and I talked like no time had passed. Aunts and uncles were glad to see me. My dad introduced me to old men who were his boyhood friends.

At my Grandmother's service, the minister talked about my Grandma's involvement with various Lutheran groups, raising her family, and her faith. My dad said she lived for church and cherished the times she could go to the "real" service in a church and not the ones in the nursing home day room. A tenor beautifully sang "Silent Night" in German, something my Grandma, herself only a second generation American of German-Russian parents, would do herself.

On the trip back to Harrisburg in the darkness of a Nebraska night, it struck me. Some families on Christmas Eve open one present. On this Christmas Eve in a small town in Nebraska, on golden winter day, Grandma Epp gave me the best Christmas present of all time—a reminder of the importance of family, the importance of faith, and the importance of caring.

Merry Christmas, Grandma Epp.