My grandmother was one of many children, enough that I can't give you a definite number. Over the years I met plenty, but certainly not all of her siblings. The meetings were sufficiently sporadic that I never got all the names and the faces put together. There was a definite chill in the air with this particular brood of folks. Even as a kid I could feel the stiffness when certain groups were gathered at the same table. Retrospect suggests many reasons, some reasonable, some silly, but mostly sad, for the distance that separated this particular grouping of brothers and sisters.

If my grandmother had a favorite sister it was most definitely Aunt Betty from South Bend. Grandmother lived in a one room attic apartment in my parents' bungalow. Aunt Betty was the only visitor I ever knew to stay on the hide-a-bed tucked under the pink painted eaves of that one-of-a-kind, miniature domain.

Aunt Betty brought laughter along with her on her visits to our home as though it was something one packed up in the suitcase for a trip. We laughed at the dinner table, we laughed on the back porch. Laughter echoed behind the two ladies as they bid us good night and carefully ascended the narrow steps up to the attic. Laughter was not necessarily the norm for our household and its unfamiliar and unabashed presence made Betty's visits all the more memorable.

In her advancing years, Aunt Betty wore eyeglasses that rivaled anything drawn for the cartoon character Mr. Magoo. The glasses gave her a slightly comical quality that only complimented the jovial air she seemed to envelope.

I don't know when it was that I learned the facts about Aunt Betty's eyesight. As the story went, Aunt Betty had totally lost her sight as a teenager but in later years was healed of her blindness through prayer. And though they didn't much get along, and though there were hurt feelings that stayed hurt and skeletons that stayed buried, most of Grandma's brood found religion and made their way to church in their later years for the sole reason of Aunt Betty's healing.

My grandmother, Jeanette Stewart, was a woman I greatly admired. During her lifetime she endured more than her share of hardship and yet she persevered without complaint. She raised her two daughters alone, from almost the beginning. She made her way in the business world with a sixth grade education.

I see now, that to my Grandmother, her sister Betty represented hope.

And, as I consider my Grandmother's teachings over the years, one consistent lesson stands out: don't mess with hope.

Last week the findings of a $2.4 million dollar study involving 1,802 heart bypass patients were revealed at Harvard Medical School concerning the healing power of prayer. The study, billed as the largest ever done of its kind, had Catholic monks or believers of other Christian faiths praying for strangers before heart surgery. The study concluded that folks did worse who received prayer.

Well pardon me if I ask for a recount or a rethink of the prayer study.

And pardon me if I resent the lack of outcry from the faith community over this supposedly scientific gibberish.

Shame on somebody. Shame on those who need to tally that which cannot be tallied. And shame on those with the pomposity to mess with hope.

Author H. Jackson Brown writes a cautionary note about hope in his book "Life's Little Instruction Book." Brown cautions the reader to never deprive someone of hope. To paraphrase Brown, "hope may be all that he or she has left."

If Grandma was alive today I know she'd have a spirited take on the folks at Harvard. Recalling her frugal ways, I suspect she'd suggest a refund on the $2.4 million spent.