It was 1987, six days before Christmas, when I received word that my maternal grandmother was dead. A massive stroke had taken her from us, so unexpectedly.
The news brought an enormous sense of loss. I grieved not only for myself, but for my little daughter as well. Never would Grandmother be a real part of her life. Only a strange face to study in a photograph album.
I loved Grandmother for many reasons. One was for her prankish nature. I remember how she would be sitting innocently, engaged in mature conversation, and the next minute you looked, her false teeth would be sticking out of her mouth. That ridiculous sight sent me and my sisters into giggly piles on the sofa. My grandfather would smile and offer a boyish-sounding reprimand, using his pet name for her: “Ganmummy, you best behave yourself, now.” He worshipped the ground she walked on.
Grandmother's house was a special place during the holiday season. As a young child, I remember anxiously waiting for the appointed day when our family would pile in the car and head toward northern Mississippi for Christmas at my grandparent's house.
After what seemed like an eternity, we'd drive up, plunge out of the car, and wrap ourselves around Grandmother, burying our faces in her freshly starched house dress. Laughing, she would guide us into the kitchen where the pressure cooker sat hissing, sending the divine smell of fresh turnip greens or purple hulls wafting through the house.
Visiting Grandmother in 1960.
Furtively, my sisters and I would roam from room-to-room, hoping to catch a glimpse of wrapped packages with our names on them.
It never happened.
Grandmother believed in the element of surprise. We knew the gifts were there. And she knew we knew. But—without fail—she waited until the final moment, when our emotions skyrocketed, before she revealed the whereabouts of the hidden prizes.
Breathlessly, I'd settle on the couch and listen to the rustle of her garments as she ambled down the long hall. In a few minutes, she'd return, bearing the coveted gifts. "Well—look what I found," she'd say, her voice childlike, her face glowing like a southern sunset.
But more than any Christmas package, I recall the countless times I heard my grandmother pray. When bedtime rolled around at Grandmother’s house, everyone was called to prayer. And it seemed she entered heaven’s gates the minute her knees touched the rug. She prayed with such fervency that even as a small child, I knew whatever she had was the real thing. Hearing her call my name in prayer filled me with a sense of security. I felt safe, knowing Grandmother was praying for me. And she did, right up to her dying day.
August, 1987 - The last time I saw Grandmother before her passing.
She was meeting my little daughter for the first time.
At the funeral home, I stumbled to the open casket, longing to feel the warmth of her stocky arms wrapping around me one more time. Some thoughtful person had placed a bouquet of flowers in her hands. Each delicate petal reminded me of the fragility of this life. A vapor, no less.
Reaching out to caress her silent form, I found myself overcome with grief. How could I ever celebrate Christmas without Grandmother? And then, just as quickly, I realized I didn't have to.
My observance of Christ's birthday is not locked into one day of the year; I celebrate His birth every day. So it is with Grandmother. Her life could not be left lying in some cold, blue box, only to be remembered on the anniversary of her death or her birth. A part of Grandmother will always be with me. For the gifts she gave during her lifetime will never decay with the passing of time; they are eternal.
"For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have a building of God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens" (II Corinthians 5:1).
