Friday, February 27, 2015

For Theora


I came across her picture today. 
 I keep the image protected
between the pages of my Bible.
I see her when I read
 the words she loved.



  I recall her tellings,
 her passing-ons
 of the one-room school house;
of the brothers,
sisters,
loving mother;
  of the farm work;
  of the loss
of brother Ernest;
 of the leaving home
 to work;
  of the courtship
 with the farm hand
 who would soon trade
 overalls for uniform.
    
 And I remember
what she told me
 of motherhood,
 of her dear children,
 of her husband -- wounded veteran.

 She told me
of his passing,
how she lost him
before I could find him.


And I remember
what I witnessed
 of widowed woman
 with work-weary,
twisted toes
 waitressing,
waitressing,
 waitressing; 
And I remember
 her moving
 far -- far
 out of reach
to live
with my cousins.

Ah! how jealous I felt!
 
 
And I remember
 her taking time
every summer season
 to drive up
from the South
 to see her children,
and her children's children,
and her children's children's children . . .
  my children.
  
Oh,
the anticipation
of these visits!
  My bedroom -- her guest room.
My twin bed,
with each
 of the various comforters
 that marked
 the chapters of my childhood.
 Holly Hobbie,
 the horse phase,
 frilly flowers,
comforted her.
 I would sleep on the floor
beside the bed
 on a thick blanket
 padded perfectly
with the envy
seeping out
from under
my brothers' bedroom door
 down the hall. 
 --Alone time with Grandma--
 A girl,
middle child's
only available taunt.

At every visit,
she'd help my mom
with the household chores --
dusting,
vacuuming,
drying dishes,
ironing our clothes --
even the permanent press sheets,
and our jammies.

At other times,
I'd find her in the kitchen
making her roast beef dinner
 and apple pies.
 
 
I'd hear her
 often
 talk to Jesus.
 I'd listen to her quiet prayers
 at night
 when she thought
 I was asleep
 on my pallet
 on the floor. 
She would
also talk
 about how
 others talked to Jesus.
 Her Bible
and religious biography
  always beside her
when she'd sit to rest
in the afternoons.
  She'd share
stories with me
 of people
she knew
 or people
she'd read about
who came
to know God
despite difficulties.
 
Once,
Grandma's troubled-in-mind
 sister
came to our house
 during Grandma's visit.
 
 I knew
Grandma
didn't get to see her
often.
 I watched
Grandma
 standing with her
 in the doorway
getting ready
 to say
good-bye.
Her hands
 on her sister's.
 
 Grandma's voice,
"Remember, Jesus loves you."
 I knew
 from her stories
 that many counted on her
 to get them
 to church,
to read to them
God's Word.

Grandma's voice again,
"Remember, Jesus loves you."
 
For many
of those early visits,
 she came
to us
driving
 an old yellow car.
 Its ailments
always
addressed
 in her prayers.
 I was
 too little.
I couldn't
 understand
what that car
 meant to her.
 
  Independence.
Connection.
Service.
 
 
 I only knew
 that it was
Grandma's prayers and duct tape
 that held it together.
 
For many
of those later visits,
she came
to us
in an airplane.
Safety
always
addressed
in her prayers.

 
I hated
each year
to say
goodbye
and wondered
those
later
 years
if
each
goodbye
was
the
goodbye.
 
 
I will always treasure
 that memory
of
 anticipation.
 
 
Looking
out the window
 hoping to see
 her yellow car
 pulling
 into the driveway.
 
 
 Seeing
her petite form
emerging
 from behind
the car door.
 
 
Wondering
what special gift
she'd have
 for me
 in the trunk.
 
Those gifts,
 those mere trinkets,
 were just accessories
to the priceless worth
 of mine inheritance
 -- her legacy --
 
 the knowledge
that an abundant life
can be lived
with a little bit of duct tape
 and a whole lot of prayer. 
for
Theora
1921-2014
 
 
 
 
Amy

1 comment:

  1. What a beautiful tribute to your Grandmother! Nothing better than the love between a grandparent and grandchild.
    Farmhouse hugs,
    Cindy

    ReplyDelete