Tag: grandparents

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Anna – an Easter story

Easter is a season about what really matters: life out of death. My grandparents would credit Jesus for bringing life out of death for humanity at Easter. But for their own marriage, they would credit Miller Lite beer.

Each year they swore off beer for Lent. Their marriage would then be stress tested for the next 40 days. When they got home after the Easter service they would line up a 6-pack of cold ones on the kitchen counter. The moment the clock struck noon they would each shotgun a couple of beers. Marital bliss restored: life out of death. Thank you Miller Lite.

My friend Carl’s much more substantive experience with this mystery involves his daughter Anna. She was born in 1974 more than three months premature. Brain-injured at birth, she had cerebral palsy and was unable to walk, talk, or do much of anything for herself.  But she was smart, strong and charismatic – with a big smile and infectious laugh that drew people to her. Carl says, “She was my anchor and touchstone and I like to think that I was hers.”  Anna died unexpectedly and much too soon in 2006, back when Carl and I worked together.

Last year, Anna was honored at a neighborhood Day of the Dead party in Oakland. The party was held in an old speakeasy where the evening’s pass phrase was: “The Veil is Thin.” Anna’s photo (enclosed) was placed with those of the other departed on an elaborate, makeshift shrine behind the bar.  According to Carl, “It was an evening to remember with lots of laughter and tears flowing from the audience to accompany the beautiful, haunting music and storytelling.”

Days later, the host of the party contacted Carl to tell him how drawn he had been to Anna’s photo during the party, coming back to it again and again: “I want to know that woman,” he said. “I’m not sure what it was about Anna’s picture and the way that she looked at me, but it was captivating in a way that words cannot define . . . it was more of a feeling that touched my soul. Viewing her just captivated me . . .I wish I knew her.” Carl remarked that Anna still has that kind of presence more than 11 years after her death “. . . shining through the darkness and bringing light to our lives still”.

Carl is a real writer. He shared with me the following poem about Anna. I believe it is an Easter poem:

hungry we are hungry for connection

let me tell you about Anna

brain broken at birth

who had no stops

 

inhabiting a body that didn’t

work where words went in

and didn’t come out and all

was said with feelings

 

that shook you awake how

can you not open yourself to that

not hiding from the love revealed

in no words not capturing you

 

in her arms but penetrating

your defences with a look

insisting on your presence

her feelings like knives

 

cutting away half measures

to what you thought you knew

you never knew or imagined

that your time on earth could be

 

so simple and joyful for even just this

one moment in her presence eyes lit up

seeing you in a way never seen

or thought possible who are you

 

who are you now when will you see

yourself through her eyes

exposed revealed redeemed

in the touch that she could only give

 

if touched first what if you too

could put words aside

fiercely surrendering to her

hard-won state of grace

 

that would be something to celebrate. 

Such a hard-won state of grace and something to celebrate indeed. Happy Easter friends!

[If you know others who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

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Grandparents

“At Church. Beer in fridge. Love, Grandma”.  The note was taped to the front door of my grandparent’s house. My college roommate and I had just rolled up after 10 hours on the road in my 1970’s camper van, “Chocolate Thunder”: orange shag carpet inside, tantalizing brown color outside.

Moments after we had let ourselves in to my grandparent’s house they burst through the door and smothered us in hugs and kisses.

I asked grandma how she was doing. “Busier than a fart in a hot skillet”, she replied. She really said that.

Grandpa went to the fridge and returned with cans of Miller Lite. He also brought out the small glass cups: refined people never drink their Miller Lite directly from the can. My roommate stared wide eyed.

Grandma broke out the Wonder Bread and bologna and invited us to make sandwiches. In an effort to be polite, my roommate cut a modest slice of bologna. Without asking, Grandma reached over and manhandled his sandwich. She slapped on a second chunk of bologna the size of Rhode Island and teased, “You polite Canadians and your anemic sandwiches!” My roommate dutifully choked it down, aided by gulps of Miller Lite.

We had just moved into the living room to watch the Cubs game when an old family friend arrived. Out came more Miller Lite and another small glass. He regaled us with stories about his time years before in seminary, where he routinely snuck into the kitchen for a late night snack. Once, when he heard the head priest coming, he was forced to hide under a table for 20 minutes to avoid being caught. He re-enacted the event by crawling under the coffee table in my grandparent’s living room. We all laughed so hard we cried.

My roommate and I retired to the guest room. We had separate little Bert and Ernie beds with knitted bed covers. Above my bed was a crocheted wall hanging of a Sioux warrior. Above his there hung a felt church banner that read “This is the day that the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it.” We turned off the lights.

Through the thin walls we could hear grandma humming the Beer Barrel Polka as she washed up the glasses. Grandpa was listening to his police scanner radio. In the dark my roommate quietly remarked, “My God, I wish I had your grandparents”.