"The memory of the righteous will be a blessing ..." - Proverbs 10:7(NIV)There are very few subjects that I have failed to address here and few people in my life that haven't been mentioned, but my Grandmother has been one of those. It wasn't because she meant less to me, but she is a part of my life that is buried very deeply within my heart. It is also something that I haven't really talked to anyone about until now. The truth is that Grandma and her great faith taught me much and her memory affects me to this day.
When I was little, Grandma took care of me. My parents both worked everyday so that left me in her care most of the time. Although I only have misty memories of him, my Grandfather died when I was quite young. That event resulted in Grandma living with us in our drafty old farmhouse that we lived in. Within her bedroom was an ancient bed and dresser; the right side of the bed containing my Grandfather's pillow that remained on the bed. She told me once that it was "his side of the bed" and "his pillow", and that she didn't sleep there because of that. She missed him.
By the time I reached the age of seven, my siblings (all older than me) were sixteen at the youngest and were already giving in to teenage pursuits. Basically, Grandma was the most important person in my life ... the one I talked to, spent time with, and that watched after me. I loved her unconditionally and she could do no wrong in my eyes.
Grandma is the one that is actually responsible for my coffee-drinking habits. Grandma's coffee of choice was Sanka. Of course, she never drank it black; she would "fix it" with cream and sugar. With it's sweetness, It was probably closer to being a dessert than an actual cup of coffee. When I was little, she would occasionally give me a sip of coffee from her little coffee cup. The cup was old and white, with the word "VICTOR" imprinted on the bottom. She told me that she "started keeping house with the set of dishes that cup came from." I could only imagine how old the cup actually was, but it was her cup and she used it every morning.
Along with her coffee, she would have her customary breakfast that consisted of one fried egg, her coffee that she warmed on the stove in a little tin pot, and one slice of burnt toast. Every morning, Grandma burned her toast in the toaster and stood over the trash can scraping off the burned part with a butter knife. Almost every morning, Daddy would walk into the kitchen and say the same thing, "Mama, why don't you make yourself some more toast?!!" Every time she would smile and reply the same way, "this is alright. I'm just gonna scape off the 'burnt'."
As the years moved along, Grandma grew older and more unable to take care of herself. One day, when I was about 15, I was sitting in the living room watching TV during my summer break from school. All of a sudden, I heard a thud. I walked into the kitchen to find Grandma on the floor with her eyes closed. I didn't know what to think. I initially tried to wake her, but was unable to. After less than a minute, she began to open her eyes, and although I still don't know how I did it, I picked her up from the floor and stood her up at the counter. After becoming somewhat aware she asked me, "What am I doing here? Why is my arm hurting?" Inside of me, I knew that something was seriously wrong. She had obviously had a light stroke and had, in her fall, broken her arm.
What I didn't realize was that time was moving along and that things were never going to be the same again.
Within a short time, Daddy would place Grandma in a Nursing Home and my life would change forever. It didn't make any difference what my feelings were about her going away, it was deemed necessary. Suddenly, I was all alone in an empty house during the summer, and the love and joy that I felt when I was around her was gone. The house seemed empty and cold to me without her there. Although we went to visit her on the weekends, I missed her more than I could possibly express.
On a Sunday night in 1985, Grandma just went to sleep and drifted away. They told us later that she had a case of pneumonia and that had contributed to her death, but I always believed that she thought that it was just time to go. To know that she died alone is a painful realization.
That particular Sunday, my Dad and Mom had went to see her at the Nursing home, but I had decided not to go, thinking that she would be there the next Sunday. I was wrong, and she passed away that night. She had been there for me so many times and had shown me so much love, and yet I wasn't there for her. Because of my decision not to go that day, grieving was a long and painful process for me. It was very hard to move on emotionally. I really wanted the chance to say Goodbye to her, but she was gone.
Then, one night about two weeks after she died, I had a dream. In my dream, I was standing in the door of my old bedroom when Grandma appeared in front of me. With unbelief I told her, "but ... you're gone". She simply smiled and told me, "I just wanted to come back and see you, and I wanted to tell you Goodbye and that I love you." With eyes pouring tears, I threw my arms around her and apologized for not coming to see her that Sunday. I had been given one last chance to see her. The next day, I awoke ready to move on with my life ... and I have.
Her memory is something that I cherish. Her great faith in God is something that drives me to this day as I journey toward home. I remember very clearly that every night before lying down, she would sit on the edge of her bed and read the Bible that always sat next to it. I also remember seeing her praying and hearing her talking to God sometimes when she thought that no one was listening. I should be so lucky as to ever be as disciplined and as Godly as she was. She was truly a Saint.
The other day, I was looking through my cupboard when I came across her little white coffee cup; the same cup that she would give me tastes of coffee from. Of all of the material things that I have and have ever had, that little coffee cup means the most to me. Next to my Bible, it is the most important possession that I have. It serves a reminder to me of a person's unconditional love for me and a simpler time when happiness was just simply a sip from Grandma's little white cup.
