Good Tidings

Initially, my agenda was to blog about a local tradition in my town... Journey to Bethlehem is an unforgettable re-enactment of Mary and Joseph's trek to the place where, ultimately, our Savior was born.  The church where I grew up hosts this walk-through event each year, and thousands upon thousands ~ bundled to brave the weather ~ hear, sometimes for the very first time, of God's gift to us:  His Son.  I did not attend Friday evening and because the air turned blustery (dropping to wind chills of negative 15 degrees), I kept the little ones indoors Saturday night.  I'm still upset with myself for not taking advantage of Friday's temperatures.  In my heart I feel I've let my children down a bit, even though they were unaware of  my intentions to take them to Journey this weekend anyway.  We will, however, be spending some extra time this season in the Gospel of Luke....the best account of the Christmas story.  Not to do so would be the ultimate cheat afterall.  The true meaning of the season is what matters most, and my children will know the truth.

And so instead, my thoughts have turned to a different journey... 

I spent yesterday afternoon with my grandmother.  She is ninety-one years old.  She does not remember my name.  She does not remember me. 

As a child, I loved to visit her home in the country.  I loved her oatmeal (cooked on the stove the proper way) and the delicate white bowls in which it was served.  I loved her homemade gravy.  Tan.  Always tan in color from the drippings.  And peppered.  Just right.  I remember how she stuck a fork into the top of the pressure cooker as she prepared a roast for Sunday dinner.  I remember her singing voice.  She sang hymns.  That's all I ever heard her sing.  Hymns.  I remember her Bible, the picture of the praying man that hung behind her chair, and the family picnic-style meals we'd share out in the yard (following a blessing).  Every childhood should be so blessed with memories of a grandmother who lived in a sweet place called Spring Garden. 

My grandma lives nearer to me now, and yet I see her less than before.  I have no excuse.  To write this makes me sad.  I vow to be better about visiting.  This is not so much for her sake, but for mine.  She does not remember me.  But I still remember her, and I know that it is far better to give than to receive.  Time with my grandmother, in her nursing home not so far away, is the gift I'll give to myself. 

*     *     *

The first graders from "my" school chose grandma's nursing home as the recipient of their service project.  Students across the district and surrounding areas have embarked on a new character education journey, if you will.  How befitting that December's focus trait is Kindness and Compassion.  Yesterday before my visit, I delivered 65 wreaths.  They were made from many, many small green construction paper hands, finished off with red bows and berries.  Our hope is that these wreaths, which will don each and every resident's door, will bring a bit of Christmas cheer to our elderly friends.

As I entered Grandma's room, I was excited to see her awake and sitting up.  I hugged her and told her, "You look so pretty today!"  (Imagine: snow white hair and a fresh perm.) Her response: "Why, so do you, kid!"  Kid.  She hadn't forgotten this pet name.  Beyond that, our conversation waned.  Together we watched the Army-Navy football game.  Aside from some front yard games with friends in my youth, I have little experience with the sport.  I know my grandmother hasn't much of a clue about football either.  It didn't matter.  We watched, and watched, and watched until we saw the Navy Midshipmen become victorious yet again.  I pointed to my grandfather's Navy picture on her bedstand. "Remember?  Johnnie was in the Navy too."  Her reply?  A giggle, a smile, and a "shhhh."  Why?  "Because he's a boy," she said.  At that moment, I'm guessing she was far younger than 91, at some age and circumstance when a boy should not be found in a young girl's room. 

“Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home." ~ Matsuo Basho

She asked me about her mother.  Undoubtedly, I'd misunderstood.  "Where is my mother?" she wondered.  A man travels the world over in search of what he needs and returns home to find it. ~George Moore   I never met this great-grandmother of mine, but if my grandmother was asking for her, then surely, surely, Sarah was worthy of her child's memory.  But my answer...what to say?  And so I simply said this:  "She is with your Father."  She smiled and nodded, and then asked me to take her home.  What she will never know is how she ~ her example, her influence, her well-lived life ~ has helped to bring me back home...to the place I need to be.  There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered. ~Nelson Mandela

• My grandmother.  A teacher.  A writer.  We're a lot alike.
• My grandmother.  A godly woman.  A saint.  The similarities begin to fade.  I fall short.

Driving down the wrong road and knowing it,
The fork years behind, how many have thought
To pull up on the shoulder and leave the car
Empty, strike out across the fields; and how many
Are still mazed among dock and thistle,
Seeking the road they should have taken?
~Damon Knight, The Man in the Tree, 1984

My grandmother. My daughter's namesake. Know that today, it is for you that I write. I love you, and I will see you again soon.

xoxo, Stephanie