A few weeks ago was my birthday.
I’m already sensitive and sentimental — I cry {very} easily during movies — but as I get older, things are hitting me harder, I appreciate things more, I reminisce. For some reason, in the midst of turning a year older, I thought about two people who I wish I knew better but still impact me with how I witnessed them living: my grandma {my dad’s mom} and my granddaddy {my mom’s dad}.
My Grandma Short wasn’t given to many words. My grandpa was the big talker in the family. Grandma was content to listen, laugh, and cook. If my grandpa forgot someone’s name or part of a story, she would call from the kitchen or poke her head into the living room to offer the information. She was always in the kitchen, usually baking. Pies, puddings, cookies, chocolate dipped-everything. I remember when we would visit she would be by the sink when I woke up in the morning and by the sink when I said goodnight. She didn’t do anything quickly; slow, patient, deliberate would be good ways to describe her process. I never heard her raise her voice unless she was trying to get Grandpa’s attention. But it wasn’t that she didn’t have opinions. When she didn’t approve of something — whether it was something her grandkids did or something on TV — she would shake her head or slowly shake her finger. It was enough of a punishment to know she was disappointed.
I’ve often longed for her calm approach to life. If she was worried about things, I could never tell. She also wasn’t a complainer. As she got older, her feet really bothered her. She didn’t have any — literally any — fat on the bottom of her feet so when she stood and cooked all day, even with her thick-soled shoes on, she would almost limp into a chair after dinner. It became a tradition that I would rub her feet almost nightly when we would visit. She would never complain but when I pressed a certain way, she would wince a little. She often fell asleep during these foot rubs and would apologize after.
Everything she did pointed to these two truths: she loved God and she loved her family.
My granddaddy was just as quiet. When we would visit their Tennessee farm, I remember him spending the mornings in the fields and the afternoons in his office. He taught Sunday School at their church for decades and would spend hours reading and studying every week. He always struck me as contemplative. He didn’t feel the need to fill silence, often sitting and gazing out the window even if someone else was in the room. I remember as a very talkative little girl wondering why anyone would be content to just watch the birds fly by and not comment on it.
As inclined as he was to silence, he did laugh. I remember his eyes crinkling with laughter while we watched The Three Stooges. My Me-Ma {grandma} had a running collection of sad movies where the animal dies at the end and we would regularly watch them. Granddaddy would wander into the room, see what was on the TV and say, “Y’all watching that Old Yeller again? Y’all knows how it ends, don’t ya?” and walk out chuckling. Even as he became more forgetful and slower toward the end of his life, I still remember him whistling, softly laughing when something struck him funny, and content.
Both of these people had seen hardship {Grandma’s brother died when she was a teenager and Granddaddy’s parents died when he was young} but they didn’t let difficulty define them or keep them from smiling. They both faced life with the perspective that God was in control.
I wish I would have had more opportunities to sit and ask questions and learn from them. The memories I do have are precious and going into this next year God has given, I’m making a conscience effort to not let the things around me dictate my mood or attitude. I want to find joy in simple things, serve my family well, and point others to Christ by my daily attitude.
Do you ever think what your legacy will be for those who know you? How would you like to be remembered?
Photo by James Besser on Unsplash.