Chicken Soup for the Grandma's Soul (26 page)
My wonderful grandmother, Mamma, came to help out. She walked inside, and love immediately poured from her heart as she gazed into the bassinets in which my tiny babies slept. I was so glad to see her. I threw my arms around her neck and held her close. I'll never forget how soft her hair was and how good she smelled that day. It reminded me of the times that she squeezed me tightly when, as a child, I needed a hug.
She smiled and said, “Babies raising babies, Lord. Now just what do you think about that?” By the expression on her face, I knew she still loved me, as much as ever. Suddenly I understood the sacrifice that she made when her girls were small and, later, while helping my parents to raise me. I also realized that I would always be a baby to her, regardless of my age.
During the next two weeks, Mamma and I spent a great deal of time together. While she rocked one baby, I changed the other. When I sterilized bottles, she folded mounds of diapers. I never imagined that two little babies could create so much laundry or drink so much formula. While I appreciated the efforts that Mamma put forward to physically help me get through the first two weeks of my babies' lives, I appreciated more the loving support. Just when I needed it most she said, “You're doing a good job, darling.” She blessed me with instructions, giving me a crash course in Motherhood 202.
“Love them while you have them, darling,” she said after we got both boys to sleep one morning. “Life is so short. Before you turn around good, they'll be gone.” Of course, with them being less than two weeks old, the thought of them leaving home was the last thing on my mindâI was just concerned about making it through the next few days! But I listened and clung to every word she said.
“Always be positive,” was a favorite hint that she repeated many times during our roundtable discussions. “If you ever say âno,' don't back down” and “Remember to say what you mean and mean what you say,” were favorite lines of hers. “Sometimes it's better to say, âLet me think about it' before answering. Never base your decisions on guilt, pride or obligation. Let love be your guide.”
Mamma was never afraid to say what she was thinking. “Be willing to admit, even to kids, that you are capable of making mistakes, darling. Tell them you're sorry when you make a bad decision. They may be little, but remember that they have feelings too,” she said as she kissed one of the baby's tiny cheeks.
“Never put them on the back burner of your life,” she said. “God has given you two blessings. Pray for them daily, thanking him. Let them know you are praying for them too,” she followed. “That is very important.”
The two weeks passed quickly, and suddenly I turned around one day and the boys were walking, talking, and too soon they started school. A few years later, Mamma left this world behind. Through my tears, I watched as my little boys sang her favorite hymn before a chapel full of her friends and family. In my mind, I saw the love in her eyes as she gazed into their bassinets just a few years earlier. I knew in my heart that their sweet voices would make her feel very honored.
Over the years, as little storms crept into our lives, I never forgot Mamma's instructions. Many times I had to admit I'd made a mistake, and I told my kids I was sorry. When they became teens, I made some tough decisions. Like Mamma challenged me to do, I tried to base every decision not on guilt, pride or obligation, but on love. I am positive they have always understood how important they are to me. I realized life was short and they'd be gone in no time, so I spent quality time with them every single day.
When the boys grew into young men, I was elated as they walked across the university auditorium and accepted their hard-earned diplomas. I thought of Mamma and how proud she would have been of them both. When the dean called their names, in my heart I heard Mamma say, “Babies raising babies, Lord. Now what do you think of that?”
Somewhere, beyond the cheering, I also heard her say, “Good job, darling. I give you an A+ in Motherhood 202.”
“Thank you, Mamma. You taught me everything that I know.”
Nancy Gibbs
P
resents which our love for the donor has
rendered precious are ever more acceptable.
Ovid
T
he heart of the giver makes the gift dear and
precious.
Martin Luther
During 1956 and 1957 I worked in the various refugee camps near Linz, Austria. As a male volunteer under the auspices of the service arm of my denomination, the Church of the Brethren, I worked with people who had lost their homes and possessions in Eastern Europe during World War II or after the war when they fled from areas under Communist control. Although they desperately wanted to immigrate to a country where they could begin a new start in life, many were still stranded in dreary refugee camps.
My experiences with the survivors of World War II led me to enroll in college upon my return to the United States because I wanted to discover what had caused the terrible war that caused so much death, suffering and dislocation. In the summer of 1958 I organized and conducted a tour group of Americans visiting the tourist points of Western Europe, including Amsterdam, Paris, Rome and the Swiss Alps. In order to show these first-time visitors another side of European life, I also took the tour group, which included my mother and aunt, into a refugee camp (Camp Haid) to visit one of the refugee families living there. I was both glad and sad to see an elderly woman with whom I'd worked two years before.
About a week later, on August 14, 1958, a portion of the tour group departed for home on a regularly scheduled KLM (Royal Dutch Airlines) flight. Tragically, this airplane was the first plane to go down in the Atlantic Ocean since World War II. Among the ninety-six casualties were twenty of my tour group, including my mother and aunt. I was devastated.
Two years later I took another tour group on the same itinerary. Although hoping that by this time all the refugees would have been permanently resettled and no longer living in a refugee camp, I again took the group into Camp Haid. When I knocked on the door of the family's area of the old barracks, I was again face-to-face with the same elderly woman with whom I had renewed a friendship in 1958. Upon seeing me, the color drained from her face and the ashen-faced lady whispered, “Herr Kreider, I thought you had died in that airplane crash.”
I explained that only a portion of our group, including my mother, had been on that particular flight. I shared with her that tragic period, but then said I had much better news to share. I told her that I had just learned by telephone that very morning that my wife had given birth to a little girl in Kassel, Germany.
The refugee lady froze and just stared at me in apparent disbelief.
What was going through her mind?
She then turned and walked to the other side of the room. Reaching up, she grasped a white puppy made of yarn. The cute, handlooped poodle was about ten inches high, with floppy ears, sharply defined eyes and a pug nose. She walked back, handed the puppy to me and said, “This is a gift to the little babyâfrom her grandmother.”
What a flood of emotions swept over me.
How could this
be?
She explained that back in 1958 when I was showing other parts of the refugee camp to others in the tour group, my mother had remained in this lady's home and admired her handiwork, a handmade puppy. Despite her inability to speak German, Mother had communicated with the lady, ordered a puppy to be made, paid for it, including postage, and left her address. The old lady heard of the fatal accident and, assuming the worst, never mailed the puppy.
Now, on the day her first grandchild was born, a gift from Grandma was presented to her little granddaughter.
J. Kenneth Kreider
T
he manner of giving shows the character of the
giver, more than the gift itself.
John Caspar Lavater
“I don't want to go. You're not being fair.”
My mother glared at me. Her tan cheeks flushed with crimson.
“I won't go!” I hollered.
“You will, and that's final.”
“But . . .”
“Final,” she said as she walked out of the room.
The ride from our home to Grandma's was lengthy, but the hours of silence intensified the dreary trip. I couldn't find joy in the book or music I had brought to occupy my time. My parents sat silently in the front seat. The hum of the car on the road and my brother's rhythmical snores were my only companions.
I looked at my watch. By now my friends were on their way to the jazz concert, having fun. I rubbed my jaw, trying to relax the tight muscles.
For the next three days I worked quietly beside my parents as we cleaned my grandparents' house so they could sell it and move into an assisted-living residence near us. The dust, mold and musty smells were pungent, but not as foul as my attitude.
How could my mother treat me like this? Why would she insist I spend the most important weekend of my life doing such a rotten job? Most of my friends would graduate in three weeks, so this would have been our last chance to go to a concert and hang out together. Sweat rolled down my back as I scrubbed the kitchen cupboards, but the steam boiling in my heart was hotter than Grandma's perking teakettle.
My arms ached every night from the day's work, but my jaw ached even more from the tension built up in me. My only reprieve was following my grandparents up the rickety attic stairs to browse through the years of history stored on shelves and in boxes.
From antique dressers to handmade cedar chests, old papers, Christmas ornaments, dishes and toys, the attic was full of wonderful treasures. With every item I picked up, Grandma had a story to tell about it. I couldn't wait for our day of cleaning torture to be over so I could vacation in the past with my grandma.
Though the attic was an excellent distraction, my jaw tensed each time I thought of my friends at the concert.
As we packed to leave, Grandma tiptoed and placed a gentle kiss on my cheek. “Thank you for helping us,” she said.
“You're welcome,” I muttered. Her tender gray eyes sparkled. My sacrifice had meant a lot to her. “You're welcome,” I said again, hugging her.
Three weeks later we moved my grandparents close by, and I was able to see them regularly and enjoy the vanilla wafer cookies and milk Grandma offered me. Their new home was cozy, but I couldn't ignore the dreamy look in Grandma's eyes when she talked about her home on the beach. Together we reminisced about the objects we had seen in the attic, and Grandma's familiar smile added happy wrinkles on her face.
When Christmas arrived, Grandma and Grandpa came with wide smiles and arms full of gifts. I enjoyed having my older sister and brother home from school. And though I knew the majority of presents under the tree were for my three-year-old brother, this year was special because we were all together.
It wasn't the bright lights on the Christmas tree or the multitude of presents hugging the trunk that caught my attentionâit was the porcelain doll snuggled into the red and green plaid skirt surrounding the tree. Her hands were primly folded on her white, flowing dress. The pink satin bow around the waist and hem of her dress were bathed in the Christmas lights.
This precious gift was the last one to be handed out. Would my older sister receive this porcelain princess? Oh, how I wanted to hold it.
Grandma's curly hair bounced when she nodded her head at my mom, who tenderly picked up the doll . . . and placed it in my lap.
Silence. Even the background music seemed to sense this blessed moment. My tears fell onto the doll's fluffy white dress as I sat on the couch. “Thank you, Grandma.”
“You're welcome, dear.”
I noticed a tear trace down a wrinkle, falling onto her shoulder.
“Did you want to keep her?” I asked, stroking the doll.
“No.”
“Then why are you crying?”
“I knew you would enjoy a treasure from the attic.”
I was grateful I missed the concert, for I received priceless treasures from Grandma's. Not just the doll, but her stories and her smile, permanently etched into my mind.
Anne Johnson
R
emembrance is the only paradise out of which
we cannot be driven away.
Jean Paul Richter
There is a quilt on every bed in my grandmother's battered farmhouse. Most of the patchwork blankets are generations old. Their bindings sport holes of wear. Newer quilts flaunt their fresh, rich colors in Grandma's room. My first attempt at quilting hangs on her wall. The colors are bright, but the shapes are ever-so-slightly askew. Nevertheless, every uneven stitch holds meaning. Each crooked patch tells a story.
Years ago, during our annual family reunion at Grandma's farm, my cleaning project was the musty linen closet. I discovered a vibrant quilt top while sorting through the handmade towels, table clothes and bedding. It was patterned in a radiating star, the Star of Bethlehem. My head reeled with the stories this quilt might tell.