Of Grandmothers: Time and Treasures

A special sort of people are Grandmothers, those who have lived so much longer than we who listened at their knee. And when Time evolves - no stops - and they pass into eternity, what we have learned and loved of them shall forever be a part of who we are.

It is in appreciation of those learned and hardy women we call grandmothers that these words are written. It is with gratitude that we may build upon their strength, love and advice. It is with sadness that the realization of loneliness is too often a part of the scene. 

I reach to catch these moments as they sail...to tuck them deep in pockets,

safe from Time's eternal flight. I try with all my might and often fail.

But glancing at small secrets left behind, I gather treasures bit by bit,

a growing trove of priceless items in my mind.

So I share a season: Mine, yours, mingled for a moment,

these strands that bind our years.

Memories grow and yield a fragrant field of flowers

from which to pick a favorite blossom.

Though Time may tramp them all, the memories shall remain a treasure,

              after all!

The physical problems of aging

like creaks when I shuffle, puff down the stair

force radical limitations, strain any grin I wear.

These eras of life - we adjust to each

even as we pass, retrain our frame if not the soul

if not the trolling mind, at least until it doesn't matter.

Those looking on bustle in their era, do not understand

til they too are calmed if such a word be used, by Fate's refrain;

such sacred music, though oft played in racuous notes!

And crooned over and over and over.

No! Those coming do not perceive the world of those ahead!

For plebian folk who look, and tisk with forlorn pain

just do not realize what truth becomes.

It is not we who suffer; it is they who cry.

When one earthly being has fallen to prey

and some dread o'erwhelms him as helpless he lay

then let me in mercy do best what I can

to lighten his burden, this my fellow-man.

When dire fate befalls me, for my turn shall rise

Lord, please give me strangers with Love in their eyes.

And through this their caring, as mercy they give,

Thy cause  be ackknowledged and charity live.

Lord, help me look, with Love in my eyes!

We do not know the burden hid behind a stranger's eyes,

as passing in a crowd we smile, oblivious to his sighs.

The lonely pain and silent load which presses in his soul

is structured to remain inside and not destroy the role.

O may I gently walk with Love exuding from my face--

a triumph touchable by man; to share the Savior's grace.

Grandma sat in firelight, nimble fingers flew,

making tiny stitches, till my dress - it looked like new!

Mama rocked her blue chair, sewing late again,

taking tiny stitches, threading silky ribbon

on my dress, so I might win.

Now I sit upon my couch, music on a tape,

taking tiny stitches in a tiny pastel cape,

hoping for my little girl

whom I would teach someday,

with love, to practice stitches, make such tiny stitches

love such tiny stitches...

I watch your crinkly frown

and tiny teeth marks on your lip.

Intent, you trace bright squiggles --

words you don't yet understand.

The smallness of your fingers

gripping hard, snaps pencil points.

Such studied discovery!

Too soon you will be gone,

but these trails you leave,

I shall forever travel.

Thank you dear child

for precious memories.

You leave them, unaware.

(This was written observing my first granddaughter, Stacy, when she was about three.)

I grasp these glinting moments of my day,

lay them gently on the sunburned sand

near rocky path, when'ere I rest.

Deft little treasures I can't bear to cast away

they mark the way whence I have come.

Climbing thus to Home, so many greetings

have been shared.

As others pass this trail on their own gait

I hope to see them sometimes sit beside

near-forgotten bits and pieces, as they wait.

For I have sat by others' shady places,

others' dusty logs

and wondered at their path, their resting place.

How long the road we do not know,

the map gives not a clue.

We are to follow, each in turn, as signposts show.

For, leaving pleasant traces 'long our way

we walk until the morning of His perfect day.

I see the winter coming, feel a brief and passing chill.

Watch it's shadow dark'ning round horizon yon, and hill.

Almost in autumn's brazen gold I stand

stretching time and circumstance, to not let go your hand.

For icy night and blinding white are coming with the storm.

Are there enough provisions to assure we will be warm?

How can I know till I am there, what weight He deigns me bear,

nor can I alter much the load that you have bourne with prayer.

Let me too live, walk with my map, and worry not the storm.

Our Father is The faithful One - and He will keep us warm!

 There was a small angel

who wanted to fly.

But he kept conking trees

which got stuff in his eye.

But he brushed, fluffed and ruffled,

strolled back up the hill,

where he mustered his courage,

as angels still will.

He waited for breezes

and practiced his brawn...

then nervously counted...and jump!

He was gone!

The point of this legend

...there's got to be one...

is, no matter what crashes,

the task can be done!

Just remember to practice,

continue to try,

even when you get feathers

or leaves in your eye.

There's not much worthwhile

done just right the first try.

So, gather your courage -

Jump!  You're ready to fly!

Grandma's Hands

Splotchy, blotchy, wrinkled. I never saw your hands before

and I'm surprised!

I know your gentle clasp on my face--looking deep, we two in soul-searched comfort...

Love's tender fingers stroked my upturned cheek.

Yes, I'm chagrined at my discovery. I always thought

your hands were beautiful.

Now I know it was just You: Soul-beauty gleaming out.

Oh, Grandma, how I love your beautiful hands!