I recently had my first homework assignment in close to 40 years. “Homework” is exactly what the teacher called it.

It concerns something that happened to my grandmother almost 50 years ago ... maybe the most remarkable thing I’ve ever witnessed.

Grandmother Goldsworthy outlived my grandfather by almost 20 years, and it seemed to me that she spent most of that time getting ready to go and be with him — although she never stopped being a force to be reckoned with in this life.

Frank Calemine said he once heard his father tell my grandfather that all things considered, there had to be a place in Heaven for the two of them. Their wives were two of the most formidable women in Keyser.

One day I went to visit Grandmother while Pastor Don Moore Sr. was there, and she told us what she thought Heaven was like. I don’t recall what she said, except that her description of it was traditional, articulate and well thought-out, and it took a while to unfold.

Pastor turned to me with a hint of a wink that few other folks would have caught and said, “Well, that sounds pretty good. My idea of heaven is that while the Methodists and Baptists and the others are having choir practice and grooming their wings and polishing their haloes, the Lutherans and the Catholics will be down by the river with a keg of beer!”

This was one of the times when my grandmother got a look on her face that I can still see when I think about it.

Another such time related to my homework assignment. Pastor Sally asked us to write one page describing something that happened to introduce us to our faith, and what follows is an approximation of what I gave her:

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Grandmother Goldsworthy was a pillar of our church, and much of what I learned about faith, I learned from her. She spent her life raising children, grandchildren and dogs, and she did it with love and wisdom and was good at it.

When I was a little kid, she told me about things in a way I could understand. My cousins and I loved and respected her, and we actually listened to her (didn’t dare to do otherwise, I might add).

The night my grandfather died was one I will never forget, and for more than one reason. I wasn’t quite 12, and we had gathered at our house next door to the hospital. When Uncle Abe came over to tell us that Grandfather was gone, Grandmother went into shock. They put her on my bed and closed the door and sent for the doctor.

Looking back, I can only imagine what Dad and Abe and the other grownups were going through. They must have been wondering if we were going to lose both of them on the same night, and praying very hard. My young cousins and I weren’t in much better shape than Grandmother was.

Only a few minutes passed, and then my bedroom door opened and Grandmother walked out. It was as if nothing was wrong and everything was right. She said Jesus had come to her and told her that “Dad” was all right, and she shouldn’t worry or be afraid.

Some time after that I asked her what He looked like, and she said He looked like He did in that little picture of Him on my bedroom wall.

I always believed what she told us and knew that something extraordinary must have happened to her. Never have I seen another human being undergo a transformation that matched my grandmother’s. In later years, though, I was tempted to dismiss at least some of it to youthful memory and impressionability.

However, not long before my father died he told my cousins and me the memory of his mother that night had stayed with him. “I’ve never seen anything else like it,” he said. “She was transfigured ... absolutely glowing.” He, too, was convinced that something miraculous had happened to her, so my recollection was good after all.

This is what I think of, when I think about being introduced to the faith that has sustained my family and our love for each other.

That picture of Jesus still hangs on my bedroom wall. It reminds me that He continues to watch over us and care for us. Although he probably didn’t look like that in real life, I believe it is the way in which He appeared to my grandmother because He knew she would recognize Him immediately.

Attached to the top of it is a yellowed piece of paper, upon which years ago I typed the King James version of the 121st Psalm — which we Mountaineers like to call “The West Virginia Psalm.” It begins like this: “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth ... .”

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When he was getting on in years, some time after my mother had passed on, Dad said he had begun to wonder what Heaven would be like. Would he really be with my Mom and his parents and the rest of them again?

I told him I never gave that subject much thought. Somebody else is in charge of it, and I trust Him completely.

May peace be with you.