She was rebellious. Oh my, did she rebel. Pregnant, but not wanting to marry the baby’s father, she instead decided to marry the bartender, the entrepreneur…the non-Christian MUSICIAN. This was not the life her parents had envisioned for her. They did everything right, went to church every week and practiced daily devotionals as a family, yet she strayed.
The musician was enamored with Mom’s chestnut brown eyes and tightly curled black locks that flowed across her shoulders. He accepted the responsibility of fathering this child, so they agreed to marry in spite of protests by the parents on both sides. The whispers and leers were hard to bare. In the eyes of the ninety five self-righteous souls who sat in the oak pews on Sundays, she should have been wearing a red S on her sweater.
Church, at least this one, did not practice Jesus’ model of doing justice, loving kindness or walking humbly with God as was specified in Micah 6:8. This church was about rules and proper behavior and potlucks. In the sight of her judges, my mother stood before them accused, no symbol needed. There was not a lack of gossip. God was distant, angry and authoritative.
Grandma, however, was not like the others. She understood that only by the cross, we are able to do justice because of the one who was just. We could only love because of the one who is love. Only by His mercy we can become righteous. By kindness we live grace.
Grandma loved her daughter deeply, in spite of the mistakes that were made. She wrapped her maternal disappointment into the dark corner of her soul where only God’s light could illuminate. She was wise and knew what was now in her daughter’s future. Her knees became worn from love prayed out.
After Mom gave birth, she and the musician, and baby boy number one fled the rural life and arrived in the land of skyscrapers, night life, and juke joints; where jazz may have been cool, but big band was the king of swing, and gin was poured freely. Fast trains, streetlights, and city lights, stood in contrast to the small town where trails of earthen clay stuck to steaming asphalt left behind by deeply grooved tractor tires, and where corn grew up to the edges of the city limits. Life was now good, at least for a while.
Two years later, Mom went into labor with baby number two. That evening, the doctor was at a restaurant having dinner with his wife and just started eating his salad when he got a call to deliver a baby. Back in the day, if the doctor was not at the hospital, the mothers were given a tranquilizing gas to slow down the desire to push. He chose not to hurry. After more gas, and dessert, the doctor arrived. My sister was now allowed to be brought into light. She was such a pretty baby. A few days after being sent home, something just didn’t seem right. She looked normal, she just seemed a little extra fussy and the hope was that the strong ammonia odor in her diapers would improve, so they waited.
One year later, came number three, another boy. Mom had some complications which lead to an emergency C-section. Grandma prayed for God’s healing and He answered with mercy. Mom and my brother were sent home a week later.
Chaos in the home continued to grow. The good life lost its luster. It shifted from martinis to midnight feedings, from dancing to diapers. The daily menu included sleeplessness, laundry, medical bills, worry and exhaustion.
When he wasn’t mixing cocktails, the musician did what he could to support this new family by playing as many clubs as he could get into. His entrepreneurial talents kicked in when he sold sunglasses out of a suitcase on the street. The late nights got later and the marital issues increased. Loneliness set in for Mom with feelings of abandonment.
Fifteen months later came baby number four, a little girl, me. The marriage was hanging on by a thread. By now, it was evident that my sister had some serious developmental issues. As a result of all the gas my Mom was given, my sister was diagnosed with mental retardation and was so hyperactive that she needed to be kept in a harness and on a leash out of fear she would get injured. She needed services far greater than Mom or her family could provide. By the recommendation of their doctor, she was placed in a state hospital that provided support for children like her. Because of my sister’s extreme energy, the prognosis was given that she would die by the age of twelve. Grandma prayed for strength, because much was needed.
Then came that day, the last day my sister would live at home. Just as Mary’s soul laid bare on the day she had to release her son into the hands of scoffers, part of my mother’s soul also died when she had to release her daughter into the hands of a stranger. The musician could not face that day and stayed in the city.
When Mom got back to Grandma’s house she closed the bedroom door behind her as if it could shut off the pain. Her heart leaked down her cheeks uncontrollably, the pillow soaked with unbearable guilt. Grandma loved like Jesus with all she had. Jesus always heals through time.
Since that day and many years ago, Grandma was lifted into Jesus’ arms. Her model of living humbly, justly, with kindness and love, along with her fervent prayers, eventually led me to loving Jesus. Mom and Dad celebrated 51 years of marriage before he passed away. Mom rediscovered Jesus’ love and returned to church after being absent for over 50 years, and my sister is 63 years old and is alive and well and thriving in an adult group home. Only through the cross we live.