Chicken Soup for the Grandma's Soul (10 page)
The hot water bubbled up the dish soap and encouraged me a little. “I'll have these done in no time.” But before I could finish my pep talk, my newborn began to cry. I turned off the water and dried my hands, doubting that I would get back to the sink before the water was heavy and cold again.
I changed the baby's diaper, stepped over the basket of clean clothes that had sunk into wrinkled neglect, pulled one of the almost-dry sheets off the couch, swept away the full collection of my sons' horses, and settled in to nurse my baby.
Idyllic moment? Hardly. As soon as I sat, my lap was tumbled full of books. My kids' thought was that if Mom was sitting, she might as well read to us. So, balancing the four toddlers and protecting the baby from their commotion while trying to turn the pages with no hands, I began to read. I read over the phone ringing and over the TV set clicking on and off at full volume because one of them was sitting on the remote control that I couldn't reach and they couldn't reach under them to hand to me.
I read over my pounding headache, around the errant thought of what to make for dinner and over the doorbell ringing. The doorbell ringing! Oh no! All but the baby and me were off the couch and to the door before I could grasp a moment of hope that whoever it was would give up and go away, never to see me at my unshowered, unkempt worst.
“Grandma!” the children chorused while doing the Grandma-is-here dance of anticipated hugs and candy.
Grandma coming was always good news, but it couldn't be my mother. It couldn't be today. She lived three hours away. She never just dropped by. What would she think? I scanned the room and sighed. There was no way to recover this, no way to quickly put things right.
Cold, fresh air rushed in ahead of my mother, making me realize how stuffy and sick my house smelled.
“Cindy?” My mother called my name, startling the baby and making him cry. I wanted to join him. I heard my mother's uneven steps as she navigated around and over the things on the floor.
“Cindy?” she said again before spotting me among the Spiderman sheets.
I was stricken. I was embarrassed. I had forgotten it was Thursday. I had forgotten that my mother had planned to stop in on her way back home from the city.
“Oh my, have things gotten out of control around here,” she surveyed the room and started laughing when she saw my nightgowns drying on the bouncing horse that was wearing one of my nursing bras for a hat, its ears sticking through the drop down flaps.
Her laughter filled the house with the first ray of sunshine to make it through the winter gray of the last mucky week.
I giggled, then laughed out loud before I teared up in my fatigue.
My mother cleared a space beside me. “Cindy, weren't you raised in my home?”
I nodded, unable to speak around the choking of my tears.
“Was my house always perfect, always clean?”
I shook my head no.
“Did you think I was a failure as a mother or as a homemaker?”
Again I shook my head no.
“And I don't think that of you. I have sat where you are sitting now.” She grinned, then she reached over and pulled a horse from under my hip.
We chuckled together.
“Cindy, I can tell you one thing and you listen to me.” Her voice became solemn. “These mothering days are the ones you'll etch into your heart, and when the years have passed and your time becomes quiet enough to roam its memories, they are the ones you'll hold most dear.”
I recognized the love and truth in her words. I wrote them on my heart and contemplated them when my mothering days were calm and sunny and when they were hectic and never ending.
Now the years have passed and my time has become quiet enough to roam my memories. It is the mothering days that I open in my heart and smile fondly on.
And when my daughters and daughters-in-law are pressed in and overwhelmed with the making of their families and homes, I tell them this story and say to them, “These are the days you'll hold most dear.” And they recognize the truth and the love of their grandmother's words, and they etch the memories into their hearts.
Cynthia M. Hamond
T
hose who make us happy are always thankful
to us for being so; their gratitude is the reward of
their benefits.
Madam Swetchine
Dearest Grandma,
I have always loved you, Grandma, for your sweet and loving ways.
You always had the knack of brightening ordinary days.
You are a sincere and honest woman, beautiful, kind and true.
Since I was a little girl I have always admired you.
You have given me many special gifts, but the most valuable that I recall,
Is a gift that I have treasured since I was very small.
This wonderful, lovely present was not a pearl or piece of gold.
It was not a diamond or precious gem, nor could it be bought or sold.
It was not a lucky charm that could be tucked inside my pocket.
It was not a silver necklace or an expensive golden locket. It did not have a price tag. Its worth could not be measured.
Throughout my life, it is something that I have always treasured.
This gift is unique, one of a kind, its beauty beyond compare.
It fills my life with hopes and dreams and takes away my fears.
It was given to you quite long ago, sent by the Lord above.
He entrusted you to care for it and nurture it with love.
I thank you for my favorite gift worth more than any other.
I received it on the day that I was born, my beautiful, precious mother.
Gina Antonios
“Don't forget to send an e-card to your
grandmother thanking her for the stationery.”
Reprinted by permission of Cartoon Resource.
S
ome great moments occur from time to time
in life. When you do all you can to enable
others to have great moments, you'll be
blessed with some matchless moments
yourself.
E. H. Kinney
H
oliness is not a luxury for the few; it is not just
for some people.
It is meant for you and for me and for all of us.
It is a simple duty, because if we learn to love, we
learn to be holy.
Mother Teresa
No one feels very holy at 4:00 A.M., especially not me. Normally I would be fast asleep at this time, but a family emergency made it necessary for me to set my alarm and arise at this dark hour. I trip over my shoes as I round the foot of the bed and head for the hall bathroom to put on my glasses and begin the treatment regimen.
Two-year-old Andrew has pneumonia again. Having never fully recovered from it four weeks ago, Andrew had an asthma attack, tonsillitis and a relapse of pneumonia accompanied by bronchitis. His parents, my daughter and son-in-law, are exhausted. The treatment plan calls for breathing treatments every four hours around the clock, so we are taking turns. Melissa stays up for the midnight treatment, I do the 4:00 A.M. and David gets the 8:00 A.M. just before leaving for work.
I look in on Andrew. He is sleeping peacefully as I prepare the vials of medication and pour them into the nebulizer. I must make sure he breathes the healing vapors until they stop steaming. This usually takes thirty minutes. The steam begins, and with it are my prayers for his recovery.
Andrew opens one eye. He sees “Mimi” and goes back to sleep. Sometimes he will mumble something about Rock City or the fish zoo (aquarium). Andrew is a trouper. He isn't alarmed at having his sleep disturbed. He's had scores of breathing treatments in his young life. He is all too familiar with having them, yet, gentle soul that he is, he makes no resistance. At two years, one month old, he weighs a whopping twenty-six pounds. We call him our “sunshine boy” because when he begins to have breathing problems, his mother holds him close, singing “You are my sunshine” to calm him.
As I hold the tube with healing vapors close to Andrew's nose and mouth, I remember that God is always hovering over me, especially when I am at my lowest point. His spirit broods over me, acting as a healing agent to cover me with a vapor of prayer. Too often, I am unconscious of the effort God is making, just as Andrew is unaware of me holding life-giving fumes to his nostrils. He is relaxed and rested, trusting in the care of those who love him.
Andrew's lungs will heal with proper treatment, medication and time. Doctors assure us that he will outgrow the asthma to become a strong young man. The pediatric pulmonary specialist has every confidence that the asthma attacks will lessen with age. That's what we pray for.
Becoming a grandmother has opened my soul to God's heart. Things that previously made no sense are now clear. But I suppose mortality is easily felt and moments treasured at 4:00 A.M. Before today I wouldn't have considered lost sleep a gift. But to kneel by my grandson's bed and minister to him at 4:00 A.M. is a special moment, a chance to talk to my Father and an opportunity to serve. I never felt more holy.
Sheila S. Hudson
P
rayer should be the key of the day and the lock
of the night.
Thomas Fuller
It was a very hot July evening in Illinois, and our family was enjoying ice cream on the porch together. I was only eight years old, and my father was teasing me when I jumped backwards off the railing and caught my leg on the porch step. The deep cut required stitches and a trip to the hospital.
My doctor was out boating, and since it was 1947 and there were no cell phones or other means of communication, we had a three-hour wait in the emergency room. Finally, he arrived and began stitching with my mother's help. With my leg fully bandaged, I was sent home to recover. By Friday, something was terribly wrong. My temperature climbed to 103, and a quick call to the doctor revealed I had gangrene. On Sunday morning I had my second dose of antibiotics, but by afternoon I had a violent reaction, leaving me with a very high fever, delirious and completely covered with hives.
The doctor met us at his office and, after a brief exam, looked very grim. Taking my parents into the other room I heard him say there was nothing more he could do and no other drugs available for him to use. He further informed them that I had not received enough penicillin to fight the gangrene that had already eaten away the stitches, leaving a gaping hole in my leg. The only way to save my life was to amputate my leg, and he immediately scheduled surgery for the following morning.
Needless to say, all of us were in shock. No one wanted to face this. My father was especially devastated and called for the church members to come over and pray. Even though I was burning up with a fever, in pain, itching and delirious, I cried out, “I just want Grandma to come and anoint me with oil and pray for me! I know if she prays everything will be just fine.”
Grandma and Grandpa Ozee lived just around the corner from us, and I spent many hours at their house. Grandma lived what she believed, and I had absolute confidence that her prayer on my behalf would certainly touch the heart of God. Whenever I visited her at 9:30 in the morning, I always found her sitting in her rocking chair with her Bible in her lap. At 10:30, I knew she would be on her knees in prayer. I often sat quietly as she shared the Bible with me. I watched as she prepared meals for the transients who rode the boxcars into our town and somehow knew their way to her door. While she cooked, they were required to read a chapter in the Bible before they could eat. While they were eating, she would gently present the salvation message and they always left with a prayer and a New Testament. I have no idea what happened to any of them, but I am confident many left knowing they had met a very special lady who not only gave them physical food but “living water” and hope for a better life.
I knew Grandma prayed for everything from a sick parakeet to the terminally ill. I remember being amused when some of the ladies from the church came to her house complaining about the church problems and the preacher. Very few words had been spoken when Grandma had them on their knees and praying for the preacher and all the problems involved. She had great faith and believed God answered prayers. She taught me the Lord was faithful and interested in even the smallest details of life.