Grandma’s Coming!

Oh, how I dreaded my grandmother’s arrival every summer. It always ended with my parents arguing, my mother threatening, and undue punishment for us kids.

When I was very young I remember visiting Grandma in her apartment. My mother would give us strict orders not to eat or drink anything, and not to use the toilet because of all the cats she had. I never wanted to even sit down while we were there. My Dad tried to find a reason for her to come with us to the park or out to eat … anything so we wouldn’t have to stay there embarrassing him. My mother was not very tactful; plus she would lie saying that one of us was allergic to cats. The odor was awful, the tension unbearable … it was never pleasant.

Once I was in school, Edna would come to Michigan each summer and make the rounds of all our relatives. My dad’s brothers and sisters were all older with grown children so she always wanted to stay longer with us. A few weeks at one daughter’s house, a week visiting her son, and so on until eventually she’d be coming to our house. Arguments always preceded her arrival, ending with my father saying she was his mother and she WAS coming. My mother hated having her in her house, which meant we would all suffer her wrath long after Grandma left. Yes, she gave in, but not graciously.

When she arrived she always smelled like an “old woman.” (I didn’t know anything about overactive bladders back then.) She rarely took a bath or shower because she was afraid of falling. So she “washed up” every morning, wearing the same clothes day after day. Mom would remind her that we had a washer and dryer, but Grandma never changed her ways. My bed smelled like her for weeks after she left.

We always dawdled over breakfast because Grandma was waiting on the front porch to give us our Bible verses to learn. We couldn’t play until we had recited the verse or verses for the day. (My mother was happy not having us under foot so she never intervened.)

I was miserable; being the oldest I usually had several verses to learn and rarely left the porch until lunch time. My brother had a way of charming his way out of having to learn as many even though he was only ten months younger than I was; and my sister got only short verses because she was too young “to really understand.”

I even tried to run away to a nearby park. I hid inside the bushes, but my brother knew all my hiding places. Grinning he’d tell me that Grandma was waiting for me as he went off to play. I was miserable and learned the verses only long enough to repeat them once. I was embarrassed because I had to “speak up” so she could hear me. I just knew all of our neighbors heard me, too. Sadly, I still have difficulty memorizing scripture.

I suppose, looking back, that she meant well. She loved us and wanted us to grow up “right and proper” and have many “stars in our crowns” some day. Yet the God she portrayed was vengeful and angry—she used scripture to frighten her children and grandchildren into behaving.

Then there were her special biscuits and dumplings, which Dad liked and I hated. The biscuits tasted like raw flour and no amount of butter or gravy could disguise them. Flour paste was how I’d describe her dumplings. Yuck! Please don’t have them for dinner when you invite me over, okay?

Her visit would end with my mother stressed and taking it out on us until she finally demanded that Grandma had to go or else! Usually we pawned her off on another relative at the annual reunion.

No memories of a sweet, gentle granny. I saw her as a troublemaker, as a woman I dreaded to see coming. She had birthed many children yet never knew how to be a mother … nor a grandmother. Her heavy biscuits and dumplings probably filled many a child’s hungry tummy when little else was available. In her latter years she was lonely; her cats kept her company.

But I do have one fond memory—she taught me embroidery stitching, which I still love to do. My grandson sits with me to help me with my “threading” and thinks making pictures with thread is pretty special. I encourage him as he learns Bible verses in Cubbies on Wednesday nights and we talk often about the wonder of God’s world.

Last Sunday when I arrived at their house for dinner, my little granddaughter came running to greet me with a huge smile and “Grandmama!” My grandson hugged me and reminded me that he was “six, now!” We read stories, played games, and just loved one another. I didn’t have a loving, sweet grandmother, but I am not her. I can be the grandmother I wish I had.

Our heritage is important. It gives us the genes we need to fulfill God’s plans in our lives, but we must choose: the chains of our past and our sinful nature or the life planned by our Creator. With the guidance of the Holy Spirit and the protection of the Armor of God, I chose to break the chains.

Have you made your choice?