My Grandmother, the Value of a Simple Life
Recently I was looking through some old papers and I found a paper I only barely remember writing. The piece focused on my maternal grandmother. My mother was the youngest of five children. Four of those five siblings died during or before their sixtieth year. When my grandmother died at the age of ninety three, my mother was the only child left.
Thirteen years later when we were visiting my mother, Steve and I made the short trip down what might be considered a major country road. When I was a child that was the route first to my grandmother's house and then to to the ocean. Many years ago a major highway that could better handle the heavy flow of traffic to the ocean was built parallel to the one we were traveling on. I wanted to again see the cemetery where my mother's family is buried.
Our station wagon rounded the last curve and there it was. The white wooden church rested on top of a small hill. The grave markers lay spread out, on the other side of the little dirt road at the base of the hill. I searched for the marker that mattered. A large granite stone bore the name Parsons in towering letters. Nearby small flat markers designated the bodily resting place of these relatives. Each marker included the birth and death date of each person. That's all that was revealed about the bones that lay beneath the soil and well tended grass. Even though thirteen years had passed, nothing could dim the memory of my grandmom, Carrie Parsons. I felt a catch in my throat as I looked across the road to my grandmother's once familiar home. How many comfortable and safe hours had I spent within its walls? I did not wish to return to what had been. I only mourned my inability to better recall those hours that formed my roots.
I walked across the road towards the side door. Somehow it seemed that instead of reality, I should still be able to see the past, the side door opened, my grandmother's face eagerly looking through the screen as I came closer. I had seen pictures of my grandmother when she weighed more, but in my memories I can still feel her bony frame as she leaned in with arms outstretched to embrace my hug. We would complete the transaction with carefully executed simultaneous kisses placed on each other's cheek. Her hair was salt and pepper. Wisps of gray on either side refused to enter the discipline of her braided bun. She had a hearing problem and so even though her mind was clear even into her ninety third and last year, she seemed somewhat removed from the world.Grandmom seemed to enjoy television but she only caught a fraction of what was being said. She was only vaguely aware of wars, murders, rapes, and political corruption.
How much does a refrigerator cost? What was the amount of last year's taxes? She knew nothing of rising costs or the frustrations of comparison shopping. Over the years one of her daughters handled Grandmom's financial needs. The questions she did ask were "Have I put sugar water on my potato rolls for my grandson?","If I go to bed late and wake up early can I finish the dress for my granddaughter before she goes back to college?" Yes, probably because of her hearing problem none of us knew her as well as we might have otherwise but I did know I had the kindest grandmother possible. Although I realized the possible fallacy in my thinking, I always thought someone that kind had to be a Christian. Nothing in her life led me to believe anything else.
God graciously gave me a gift. The summer before Grandmom's ninety third birthday, Steve and I, and three friends stayed at my grandmother's house to work on revising a slide presentation of the gospel. Each night we had a devotional. The night Earl led it he asked each of us to share how we had become Christians. Although Grandmom was sitting with us I didn't expect her to say anything. When it was her turn she began to share when she accepted Christ at a camp meeting. Her eyes filled with tears as she described some of her frustrations as she has lived out her faith. All of us were able to encourage her and in some minor ways instruct her.
August came and I think because of that weekend I was able to write her a birthday letter that expressed my appreciation of her and pointed her to Christ. My mother still keeps that letter in my grandmom's King James Bible. The week of my mom's birthday Grandmom wasn't feeling well. She called my mother, washed up, and then went with my mom to the hospital. A few days later she died. My husband, the seminary student was able to say some things with certainty because not only had we observed a life that seemed to demonstrate the gospel, but we had heard in her own words of her desire to follow Christ.
I'm glad I went to the cemetery that day. No matter how ornate cemeteries are they are always inadequate to describe what is buried there. My grandmother's stone is small and flat, name, date of birth, date of death. Even if there had been space and finances to inscribe more, how could it have communicated all the love and steadfastness one quiet woman poured into the lives of her family, and all the grace that God poured into hers?
Thirteen years later when we were visiting my mother, Steve and I made the short trip down what might be considered a major country road. When I was a child that was the route first to my grandmother's house and then to to the ocean. Many years ago a major highway that could better handle the heavy flow of traffic to the ocean was built parallel to the one we were traveling on. I wanted to again see the cemetery where my mother's family is buried.
Our station wagon rounded the last curve and there it was. The white wooden church rested on top of a small hill. The grave markers lay spread out, on the other side of the little dirt road at the base of the hill. I searched for the marker that mattered. A large granite stone bore the name Parsons in towering letters. Nearby small flat markers designated the bodily resting place of these relatives. Each marker included the birth and death date of each person. That's all that was revealed about the bones that lay beneath the soil and well tended grass. Even though thirteen years had passed, nothing could dim the memory of my grandmom, Carrie Parsons. I felt a catch in my throat as I looked across the road to my grandmother's once familiar home. How many comfortable and safe hours had I spent within its walls? I did not wish to return to what had been. I only mourned my inability to better recall those hours that formed my roots.
I walked across the road towards the side door. Somehow it seemed that instead of reality, I should still be able to see the past, the side door opened, my grandmother's face eagerly looking through the screen as I came closer. I had seen pictures of my grandmother when she weighed more, but in my memories I can still feel her bony frame as she leaned in with arms outstretched to embrace my hug. We would complete the transaction with carefully executed simultaneous kisses placed on each other's cheek. Her hair was salt and pepper. Wisps of gray on either side refused to enter the discipline of her braided bun. She had a hearing problem and so even though her mind was clear even into her ninety third and last year, she seemed somewhat removed from the world.Grandmom seemed to enjoy television but she only caught a fraction of what was being said. She was only vaguely aware of wars, murders, rapes, and political corruption.
How much does a refrigerator cost? What was the amount of last year's taxes? She knew nothing of rising costs or the frustrations of comparison shopping. Over the years one of her daughters handled Grandmom's financial needs. The questions she did ask were "Have I put sugar water on my potato rolls for my grandson?","If I go to bed late and wake up early can I finish the dress for my granddaughter before she goes back to college?" Yes, probably because of her hearing problem none of us knew her as well as we might have otherwise but I did know I had the kindest grandmother possible. Although I realized the possible fallacy in my thinking, I always thought someone that kind had to be a Christian. Nothing in her life led me to believe anything else.
God graciously gave me a gift. The summer before Grandmom's ninety third birthday, Steve and I, and three friends stayed at my grandmother's house to work on revising a slide presentation of the gospel. Each night we had a devotional. The night Earl led it he asked each of us to share how we had become Christians. Although Grandmom was sitting with us I didn't expect her to say anything. When it was her turn she began to share when she accepted Christ at a camp meeting. Her eyes filled with tears as she described some of her frustrations as she has lived out her faith. All of us were able to encourage her and in some minor ways instruct her.
August came and I think because of that weekend I was able to write her a birthday letter that expressed my appreciation of her and pointed her to Christ. My mother still keeps that letter in my grandmom's King James Bible. The week of my mom's birthday Grandmom wasn't feeling well. She called my mother, washed up, and then went with my mom to the hospital. A few days later she died. My husband, the seminary student was able to say some things with certainty because not only had we observed a life that seemed to demonstrate the gospel, but we had heard in her own words of her desire to follow Christ.
I'm glad I went to the cemetery that day. No matter how ornate cemeteries are they are always inadequate to describe what is buried there. My grandmother's stone is small and flat, name, date of birth, date of death. Even if there had been space and finances to inscribe more, how could it have communicated all the love and steadfastness one quiet woman poured into the lives of her family, and all the grace that God poured into hers?
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