This Morning’s Prayer

After Communion this morning, as I attend church alone, I walked back to my seat and bowed my head to pray.

I struggled emotionally this service, as the holidays are always a bit hard for me, and I have no family here.  Everyone around me was trying to quiet their toddler, standing with their older children, or resting their hand on their ever-growing belly, having their own little Advent inside their bodies.  Alone, childless, and in the back – I was feeling low.

I spoke to the Lord about all this.  For reasons only He knows, I can’t have children.  It’s not even miracle worthy, it is just a simple fact of biology.  There is no fix.  It just is.  I’ve struggled to understand or at least get over this stupid concept.  I’m much better than I was at this time last year, I believe having a direction (writing) and keeping my quiet time with the Lord has improved that.

Anyway, as I’m on verge of tears, head bowed, with my thoughts circling around the fact that I will never have the experience of children, especially at Christmas, BAM! out of no where something large knocks into me.

I’m in the middle of a row by myself.  This was a tactical move.

Startled, I look up and see my friend’s three year old foster son, all smiles, with those sparkly blue eyes that are going to break hearts when he gets older.  He ran to hug my legs and exclaimed something I couldn’t understand.  I am not fluent in Toddler and it wasn’t English.  Maybe it was Tongues, but no one interpreted.

I couldn’t help but smile.  This kid usually pays me no mind, and honestly, I’m not the best with kids.  His mom quickly pulled him away, with that “Sorry for disturbing your prayer!” look in her eyes.  I just laughed.

Maybe that was God’s way of saying, “Buck up.  I Am enough.” or “This is My Way of reassuring you that everything will work out according to My Plan.”

Nonetheless, I got a hug from God today.  And for a non-touchy-feely person like myself, it was so very cool.

Merry Christmas.  And if you have children, hold them close, and bask in it.  For me.

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All that’s left is a band of gold

Last time I visited my childhood home, my mom set out several jewelry pieces from my grandmother she wanted me to have.  A simple gold wedding band was among them.  It appeared slightly weathered, but it fit my finger as though it was custom made for me.  There was an inscription inside: “RE to GA Dec 29 – 1910.”  I knew right away who it belonged to: RE was my great-grandfather, GA was my great-grandmother.

They were married on a Thursday, like me.  I don’t know how they met or what their relationship story was.  I have pictures of them with beautiful smiling faces, they look so happy together.  I have pictures of her with the ring.  It’s hard to make out, but I can see it.  This union produced one of my all-time favorite people: my grandmother.

If only that ring could speak!

I’m sure it’d tell me of the giddiness of January 1911, every time she glanced at her left hand: I’m married!  Women didn’t have many rights back then, marriage was a step-up for her.  Despite the typically scripted quiet and obedient wife of the time, my great-grandmother was kind, sweet, and quite the firecracker.  She was fierce as much as she was loving.

I wonder if the ring stayed on her finger during her pregnancies, or if the swelling became too much and it was left in the drawer.  I wonder too, what the ring would say to the arguments the neighbors undoubtedly heard: my great-grandfather was a drunk, especially during Prohibition (our family never was one for timing….).  When he was sober, he was a quiet, kind man.  When he was drunk, he would chase my great-grandmother around the kitchen table with a butcher knife, transforming into a monster.  I bet that ring felt awfully heavy in those moments.

It was common in such events, when he was drunk and violent, that my great-grandmother would lock herself and the three girls in the bedroom until he passed out.  Then they would board a streetcar and go to her mother’s house, even in the dead of a cold Detroit winter night.  I wonder if she absentmindedly fidgeted with the ring, as she stared off into space on the streetcar; fighting tears, trying to be strong for her girls, and figuring out her next move.  I wonder if she took off the ring for a time, carefully considering if she’d put it on again.

Nearly 17 years after the band of gold was placed on her left ring finger, she filed for divorce and it was granted.  She was kicked out of her church because of the divorce.  My great-grandmother took things into her own hands by working the assembly line at Dodge to provide for her daughters, despite the small alimony check; she was a welder.  The family lived with her widowed mother.

She had a handy man come to the house to do some odd jobs; they fell in love and married.  This man (my great-stepgrandfather!) was a WWI veteran and beautiful soul who was always smiling.  They stayed happily together until she died in the early 1960’s.

I wonder where the ring spent all those years.

And now it has come me.  I wear it on  my right hand.  It’s a perfect everyday ring, as I don’t have to worry about losing heirloom diamonds at work.  It’s sturdy, and in the quiet moments of work I find myself staring at the inscription.

The three girls from this marriage all died old women.  Their children are senior citizens.  These people are lost to time, only existing in stories and the random documents I’m able to unearth.

And all that remains is this ring of gold, to mark a family united and torn apart. It is a link of my ancestral past, which will always be near and dear to me.

Legacy

Her name was Rose and I knew her as Grandma Rose. She died when I was about 3 and I remember her open casket funeral and the many bouquets of flowers that surrounded it. I don’t have any other memories of her.

As I got older, I realized I couldn’t account for her on the family tree. “She was my neighbor growing up,” my mom had said. Her and her late husband were so close to my grandparents that she was considered family. What an honor.

That’s everything I know about Grandma Rose.

Oh, and one other thing: she crocheted beautifully intricate blankets.

My maternal grandma was the proud recipient of several of these pieces, and since her death over a decade ago, they now grace the couch in my sitting room. The thick yellow one, complete with tassels, is one of my prized possessions. Every winter I curl up under its warmth. And with this cloudy season of the soul I find myself under, it has been a source of comfort as well.

Over the holidays I too was gifted with the fine art of crocheting, as my sister in law showed me the basics. Now on my third project, I am finally making something that doesn’t look like an intoxicated spider weaved it. I have years of practice ahead of me to be on par with Grandma Rose, but I’d like to think I’m on my way there.

Rose probably never thought that 30 some odd years after her death, one of her creations would bring such warmth to a woman who was a baby last she saw her. Her legacy lives on, woven together on a single thread of yarn.

I want that. My bloodline dies with me and there’s no options to alleviate that. And so, while DNA is not meant to be my medium, I believe yarn will be. It will stand through the test of time, but like all things of this world, it will wear out and cease to be. But long after I meet the Lord, I will leave something behind to comfort, warm, and decorate.

And if I’m truly lucky, a child will ask, “Who was Grandma Simonne?”