Times were hard, but strangely wonderful. Though the light at the end of the tunnel was far from bright, there was hope in the form of a blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy. We were all bent, but never broken. We were survivors, after all. When all hope seemed lost, when the knot at the end of the rope was frayed, when our prayers felt like they were bouncing off the sky, an angel appeared.
My manager approached me at wk, stating I had a family emergency at home. Though only a few minute drive, every possible situation played in my head. I walked through the door to find my parents, sisters, and in-laws sitting in the living room. In the corner, in the mauve chair, sat a face from my past. I suddenly needed fresh air. I stepped outside, took a few deep breaths, and joined everyone in the living room. I struggled to find words. Disbelief had taken over my entire being. All eyes were on me as I moved with hesitancy.
"Oh, my God. It's -" I found back tears. "it's really you, isn't it?"
I reached my hand out, expecting the figure to disappear.
This is a dream, I thought. A familiar sensation overcame me - one hadn't felt in far too long. In that moment, I knew it was real. In that moment, I knew we would all be okay.
Grandma.
Grandma had passed away nine years prior. Her passing had taken years for me to grasp. I was an angry adolescent, and the fact someone close to me was dying was God adding fuel to the fire. I spent years angry with myself, ashamed of the way I treated her at times. She was the glue that held everything and everyone together.
And here she was... holding me while she cried in both disbelief and joy. Tears had become hysterical sobs before any explanation was given.
"What - what are you doing here?" I asked.
"My goodness," she replied, sipping her coffee, "I am so proud of all of you." She looked around the room. "All of you."
"Really? I think we've all screwed up pretty royally over the years," I replied, regretfully.
"Duh."
(In the fourteen years I shared with this woman, I can't recall her ever using that word. At least, not to her grandkids.)
"The way I see it," she continued, "you've been tested, tried, crucified, betrayed, worn, lonely, and everything else imaginable." With a familiar warmth, she smiled proudly. "But you have not broken. You are all still family. You are still believers. You are all doing your best and giving your all. Your attitude may not reflect it from time to time, but you are true to His word. You still love. You still fight. You don't give up.
Feeling overwhelmed, there was not a dry eye in the room. She sets her coffee down and picks up Frankie.
(From the moment he was born, he had the bluest blue eyes and blonde hair - two features found in only one member of the family - Grandma.)
"See this child?" She asked. "We had a conversation before he was born. I told him it was his turn. He would be the center of the family now He would be the one to keep things going, even when it was hard."
"But he's just a baby. You can't expect him to do that," my sister said, voicing concern.
"Sur I can. By being who he is - a child who has stolen even the most guarded of hearts -" she looked to me, "he already has."
"He's my therapy," I said. Everyone nodded. Fifteen minutes with Frankie was enough to clear my mind and lift my spirits.
"Promise me this," Grandma started, making eye contact with everyone, including the grandsons she had never met. Our eyes were glued to hers. "Promise me you will keep going. you will always find a fight in you. You are all fighters, all survivors. Don't underestimate yourselves, or each other. And don't give up on God's play for your lives - and you all know what I mean." We all nodded, knowing each of us was denying something about our lives we shouldn't be.
Kissing Frankie, she placed him in his walker. With a final look back, she said, "I love you," and walked out the door, leaving us sitting in silence.
