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
