I Am [Thelma's] Granddaughter

My sweet, sweet grandmother passed away last night, although she left us a long time ago. The last time I had a somewhat lucid conversation with her was about four years ago. It went something like this.

Gig (that's what we call her): How old are you?
JW: I'm 29.
Gig: And you never married?
JW [laughing]: No, Gig. I'm not married.
Gig [with spunk]: Well, you do OK, don't you?

My grandmother lived her life for other people. Long before she was anyone's grandmother she worked very hard keeping house for her uncles and caring for her siblings. She taught my mom that if you cleaned a faucet with cold water, it wouldn't leave spots. You should try it. Her husband battled cancer for many years, during which time she was completely invested in him. After he died, my grandmother got her teeth fixed and her hearing aids. Finally, reluctantly, she allowed someone to care for her.

Cooking was not her forte--she used to make us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with margarine on them. But she could eat anyone under the table. As a petite woman in her 80's, we would take her to Sunday dinner and watch, jaws-to-the-floor, as she put down her meal. During the summer, while my parents were on vacation, I used to take Gig for Sunday dinner by myself. It was such a grown-up thing for me to do and I am so thankful I got to care, in a tiny way, for one who had always treasured me.

When we were kids and would go visit her and my grandfather on Sundays, she would always make sure we took our "pay" from the top of the console TV in the living room. I don't know many kids whose allowances were supplemented by their grandparents, but mine was. She used to take us walking on Kensington Avenue. We would buy soft pretzels from the man at K&A, and she was with me when I bought a Cabbage Patch Kid at the Woolworth's using the Christmas money she and my grandfather had probably given me. When our family would go on vacation, we left our cat Bizzy with her and she would follow him around with a flashlight. She read the Sunday Inquirer from cover to cover and watched the proceedings on her street like a hawk. Gig always hated the weather, be it cold, hot, or a sunny 72 degrees.

There are many little memories of her; but the biggest memory, the one I must not lose, is the memory of how selfless she was. I've seen her selfless love carried on by my dad and by my aunt, who has cared for Gig for many years. I hope it doesn't skip my generation.

My Funny Valentine

This morning I told the girls in the high school small group I lead that we would be doing something crafty and Valentine-y, so they should bring paper, markers, stickers, etc. Most of them were instantly excited, but I did meet a bit of resistance. Apparently, 17 is not too young to be bitter.

Despite the minor groaning, I’m pleased to say tonight’s craft activity was a total success. We had a wonderful time writing encouragements to each other on lavishly decorated pieces of construction paper. I provided quotes from Harry Potter, Twilight and Pride and Prejudice, so the girls were able to spur each other on with words like, “Even savages can dance” (Mr. Darcy) and “You smell so good in the rain” (Edward Cullen).

What I would have these high school girls see in me is that singleness is not a dead end. It is not the end of the world. It is not a sentence to a life of boredom and misery. It is possible to live alone, and yet live gloriously.

Had I not been planning something for the girls this evening, I probably wouldn’t have even considered that today was a special day. That did not stop the people in my life from going out of their way to make me feel special.

Valentine’s Day does not suck when:
*You have a brother and sister-in-law who give you a bouquet of roses.
*Your mom bakes you chocolate chip cookies.
*Your girlfriends (married and single) gather for indulgent snacks, wine and Nora Ephron.
*You get to see Avatar in 3-D (for free!) with a friend who works at the movie theater.
*Your high school small group girls tell you things like, “’You must allow me to express how ardently I admire and love you.’ I enjoy you guys’ presence more than most, actually, all adults I know…”
*The aforementioned high school girls bring cupcakes.

Ain't No Mountain High Enough

For the past several months I have been in a funk. It grabbed hold of me one day in September and I have been wrestling it ever since. (If you’re familiar with Steven Kellogg’s retelling of Paul Bunyan, I think the funk looks a bit like a gumberoo.) The funk has brought me to places of bitterness, anger, restlessness, and fatigue. In spiritual terms, we would call it a valley.

Because I’ve pictured myself in a valley these many months, I have been waiting to be restored to the mountaintop. The mountain is a place where everything is beautiful and happy. Spiritually speaking, it’s the place where you see God’s handprints on everything and you are aware of how good you have it.

Since the funk pounced on me so suddenly, I assumed it would be defeated with finality and I would emerge at the top of the mountain worn, but wiser. I would rest on the mountaintop, my lesson learned, my clarity restored.

Instead, I find myself somewhere between the valley and the mountaintop—perhaps on a spiritual piedmont? The resentment that characterized the funk has passed, and I am feeling more like myself again. I am starting to pursue people, and I am making weekend plans that involve more than Hulu and a pair of flannel pants.

But where are the answers? Where is the explanation for the battle I’ve been fighting since the fall? Where is the freedom to throw my head back and laugh at the days to come?

The piedmont gives me a view of the low place where I’ve been, as well as a look at the heights I wish to reach. The challenge is resting here. After all, most of our spiritual lives are spent somewhere between the high and the low.