A grandmother’s Legacy

I have been spending the month of March in Illinois with grandbabies. For a couple of weeks, it was the two energetic toddlers, a 20-month-old and an almost 4-year-old girl and boy, respectively. Then, little Greta made her appearance in the world, late, but beautiful and perfect. Being a grandmother, I somehow feel old. Being a grandmother brings up memories of my grandmother. I don’t think I ever thought about my grandma as having an age: she was timeless. Our grandmother was 50 when my grandfather passed away. I never knew him as he died several years before I was born. All of our grandchildren have their grandparents.  What a blessing. My children knew Jim’s dad well; we all lived on the same farm. My mother and Grandpa Dick lived close by in Byron and then in Kasson for most of my children’s growing-up years. They all came home to celebrate when Grandpa Jorgenson passed a few years ago, and all the kids were there to celebrate their grandfather’s life at his memorial in August. What a blessing. Some never know their extended family, and the memories and stories of their grandparents are missing from their lives.

When our grandmother passed away in 2000, we grandkids handled the entire celebration service. We did the planning, the singing, the preaching, the stories, and shared the memories. As I sat rocking this newborn baby, my memories went back to the early years of my life and my grandmother’s influence. Grandmother lived on our farm. There was a long driveway to her house, and we had the path well-worn. Grandma was a musician. Many times, we would come up the steps and sneak into the house while the organ was playing. Somewhere along the way, Grandma gave me small dowels. I used them as drumsticks, and I drummed on the chair. We didn’t disrupt her playing; we joined in. When it was time for church, my father would say, “Go get Grandma,” and we kids would head down the gravel road to walk Grandma to the main farmhouse, where we would all pile in the red Impala and head for church. I was the youngest of the first four, and somehow, I got Grandma’s lap. Nothing could hurt me on Grandma’s lap.

One thing,  other than her prayer life and her faith, that stood out to me was her memorization of Scripture. We never had a TV growing up. I am not sure Grandma even had a radio. She didn’t need one; she had her Bible. We would round the corner of the house, climb up the steps to the deck, and grandma would be sitting in her rocking chair with her book. Her book was a notebook with letters written in it. The letters didn’t form words; they didn’t make sense to us, but they did to Grandma. She memorized by writing the first letter of each word. That would remind her of the word. For example: John 3:16 would look like, FGsltwthghobstwbihsnpbhel. She had pages, upon pages, upon pages which made up notebooks, which represented many books of the Bible, many books, which she would recite with the help of this unique way to recite scripture.  She loved the Word of God, and she was dedicated  to hiding it in her heart.

I don’t memorize well. Oh, I can remember all sorts of unnecessary things from the last 6o plus years, but if I try to memorize, it’s a disaster. Grandma, well into her 90’s, could still recite large sections of the Bible. The Bible meant something to Grandma which led her to memorize or rather recite. It was her sustenance, her survival and her escape. Knowing the Bible so intimately, helped her deal with her husband’s sudden death when he was 57, she was 50. My father, her son, passed away when he was 55. She grew up without electricity, driving horse and wagons to get to town, seeing the world change, men on the moon, technology and most of her friends passing away, and what she held to was her tattered Bible.

I kept that Bible after Grandma passed. It hasn’t helped me memorize, but it has sat with me through long nights of trying to figure out my next move, walking through the death of a child, loss of friends, loss of dreams and nights of insomnia. Grandma’s Bible has her notes, underlined verses, ripped pages and her aura.

As I held little Greta the other morning, I wondered what she would remember about her grandma, me? Will it be my faith, my stories, or the times I sat on the couch reading “Pout, Pout Fish” for the twentieth time in a row? What am I doing to make memories for my grandchildren, as I have for my grandmother? That thought drives me to be intentional with my time with these little ones, since we don’t live close to them, and to leave a legacy worth remembering. I send prayers, notes, gifts, and FaceTime, and be intentional about loving their life where they are and being a part of it as much as we can. And yet, the most important thing I can do is pray and find ways to be close to Jesus so when I am close to those five grands, they sense something special in me, as I always knew was special about Grandma Campbell.