Strong Women and Little Children

I have been thinking a lot about my Gramma today. Viola Mae Hauber Hudson, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, matriarch, farmer. Gramma and I bonded from an early age over an identical left leg birth mark. One round, small spot on our left leg we shared that seemed to mark us indelibly as kindred spirits. I still see her puzzling over her crossword puzzle as I catch glimpses of myself pondering over the precise selection of words when I write. I still hear her barking orders to the cows, the milkmen, the barn cats (scat!) and as I age, my voice takes on her deep tone and wistful humor, particularly with my students. I still smell her cooking, and taste her apple pies, baked in her own well aged pie pan. I often say, “It takes all kinds…” when I agree to disagree with the many kinds of people who pass my way and push my buttons. This strong woman, my Gramma, is always close in spirit.

In my spiritual journey, I am grateful to my Gramma for her pragmatism, inspiring faith formation within ordinary, daily activities of life. She was one of the women always hosting the church bizarre, planning the strawberry festival and dolling out fresh berries over home-made biscuits and ice cream. She cooked nearly every after-funeral gathering, except for her own. She probably would have done that, too, if she could have. She would speak her mind to any clergy person, not in the lofty language of abstract theology but in the practical, everyday reality of how to live in harmony and respect each other. She lived for each day, and focused on the needs of the present moment. She attended church whenever she wanted, and didn’t attend when she didn’t want to. We said grace before big family meals, and she meant it when she thanked God for harvests, crops, weather, and health. We had what we needed, but often little more than that. And, for what we had, we were grateful.

Did she pray? Did she doubt? She was a young widow who had to raise a family and run a farm. You could argue she didn’t have time. But you could argue that her daily steps forward to live and work in stubborn strength were, in themselves, both prayers and acts of faith.

I am sure that my Gramma cried sometimes, although we didn’t see it…well, other than when she fried strong onions, perhaps. Those were the only tears I saw for years. Until she was dying. I remember that time vividly, turbulently. My Mom and my Aunts, especially Joyce with whom she lived, were caring for her to the very end. They were doing everything possible to maintain her strength and integrity. Cancer was making their job harder by the day. I was visiting from out of town, along with my daughter who was, at that time, a playful and oblivious 18 month old with chubby cheeks and mischievousness oozing from every pore. She would play peek-a-boo around the walker and oxygen tanks. Gramma, in a haze of pain medicines, would moo like a cow and send her little great-grandchild into peals of laughter.

But, it eventually came time for me to leave. My flight was scheduled, but I didn’t want to say good-bye. I sat on Gramma’s bed and held her hand. I promised her I would live true to our shared birth-mark. I assured her I was raising the next generation of strong women, present there at bedside full of her clumsy and lavish unconditional toddler love. Gramma cried, big tears. So did I. My Mom and Aunt Joyce had to leave the room. But all of our spirits stayed and lingered there together, strong women of four generations. All struggling to put something beyond words into words. We never did find the words. But we shared those moments.

A few hours after our flight returned us safely home, Gramma died. We returned for her funeral barely 48 hours after we had left her bedside. In the meantime, it had snowed and there was ample toddler playtime in the midst of funeral preparations. It was like a vintage picture, the whole family walking from small church to the cemetery down the road through swirling snows and moist eyes. What I remember the most from all the blurry funeral moments, though, was my little daughter in the old country church, waving and playing peek-a-boo toward the casket. She didn’t see the death. She saw the life, just as she had seen it around the bedside and the oxygen tanks. I actually have no doubt (nor did my spouse) that she was seeing what we could not that day: the loving, present, playing spirits of the strong woman and the little child. The archetype of mother, grandmother, strength, family. The eyes of the young are open even when ours are closed.

During this Holy Week, we are challenged to walk through the last days of the passion narrative, to hear Jesus ask for the cup to pass from him. I imagine the words of Jesus reflecting the human desire to live and avoid death, the same way my Gramma’s tears showed her desire to cling to life. Jesus became more real for me during my spiritual journey when I began to stop heading in a bee-line of expectation for Easter. Instead, Lent and in particular, Holy Week ask us to take in the doubt, the denial, the struggle, the pain, the mockery, all wrapped together in the the deep and abiding love present in this narrative.

In my readings and meditations this week, I began to notice the strong women, the women of faith who were at the last supper, at the cross, at the tomb. Were there children in that scene, too, whose stories and experiences were not able to be fully captured by the words of the grown-ups? Were they able to see past the suffering and death, and seeing, instead, light and life?

I believe they were there. And they saw something the adult disciples could not. And they still do.

Strong women and little children are profound sources of light in my life, and in the world. In them, we see the Kingdom of God present here and now in the everyday wonder of living.

“Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.” (Luke 18:17)

About harasprice

Professor of Social Work and Priest in The Episcopal Church, parent, teacher, learner, writer, advocate, and grateful traveller along this journey through life
This entry was posted in lent blog 2013 and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

8 Responses to Strong Women and Little Children

  1. Ron says:

    Thanks, but I really didn’t need to shed tears this evening. I just hope my girls will be like her.

    • harasprice says:

      I know Ron…I teared up so many times writing this, too. I think we are all better parents because we had (and have) her as a role model in our lives. An incredible woman. Our tears are a tribute to that πŸ™‚

  2. Donna Ptak says:

    Wonderful! I was thinking about Gramma too. Easter always reminds me of her. I remember walking up the road to the farm all dressed in Easter dress, hat and shinning shoes early in the morning. I would go to church with Gramma and Aunt Joyce, then help with the Easter breakfast. It made me feel very important. There are many times that I wish that I could sit in that big rocking chair in the corner of her kitchen, watch her make dinner and tell her all of my problems. She always had the right answers and the attitude to go with it! I miss her a lot. Thanks for sharing, Sarah

    • harasprice says:

      Thank you Donna…I could just see that kitchen and chair when you mentioned that memory. I am so glad to share these memories with all of you, and hear yours as well. We were blessed to have such an amazing woman in our lives.

    • Ron says:

      Nothing beats thanksgiving dinner. That is what I miss the most having moved away. Not that I’ve missed many. I guess it’s just the way the ENTIRE family gets together and laugh until it hurts. I remember the week before I would have to check on how things were coming along.

      Don’t forget that grandma had a dark side too. I was old enough to ride my bike and could tell time. Shorty was still working at Fisher Price so I would just happen to stop in just as she was getting home. That’s right dinner time. It worked for a good week until it happened. Grandma had liver for supper. Worse than that we had liver for dinner at home. I think mom and grandma planned it.

      • harasprice says:

        I love that story! I can hear the plotting…

        I miss New York Thanksgiving, although I am the cook for our much smaller family dinner (we have been up to 8, though!). I feel so close to Gramma when I am fixing the traditional feast, but I do miss our laughter and stories and ever expanding tables. I wish I could be in two places at once.

        Thanks for sharing the memory πŸ™‚

  3. A truly wonderful post. Thank you for sharing it. I agree as you do that children’s eye able to see what cynicism has taken from our adult eyes. You were lucky to have your Gramma in your life. Won’t it be nice when we are all reunited with our loved ones in the next place!

    • harasprice says:

      Thank you. I was truly fortunate for her, for our relationship, and for her continued guidance and presence in my approach to life. I hope to do her proud πŸ™‚

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