Thanksgiving
I love my grandparents.
That was good to get off my chest.
See, it hasn't always been the case. I have the most normal, uneventful family in the world. My ancestry has its alcoholics and servicemen, but no horse-thiefs or moonshine runners or underground railroad rebels. It's just a normal family. So, this post might seem to be boring to some. But to me, it's a revelation.
I remember as a kid everyone at school and church would speak fondly of their grandparents. They would go over to their house and be treated to strange and extravagant meals and have gifts lavished upon them. It was weird to me that this only happened at one grandparents' house. The other grandparents' house had a stifling air of intolerance. I was never beaten by my grandparents, nor molested. I was never physically abused by any stretch of the imagination. But there were comments that I heard. Once, I had split my head open and received 28 stitches. I had to have peroxide poured over the wound every night so the scabs would allow the skin to heal. While I was receiving the treatment from my mother, my grandmother poked my gut and said, "Josh, you're fat." My mom tried to soothe the remark, but to a twelve-year-old, this was devastating.
Other memories included my mother sobbing because the same grandparents said they didn't feel welcome in our house. I didn't understand this; everyone else, on both sides of the family felt as if our house was as comfortable as theirs (the exception, of course, being the blow-up beds).
I heard my dad tell me the story of how he and my mother were engaged. He asked her to marry him in the back of her dad's car as they went to a gospel concert some miles away. His token of love was a pendant that she still wears. It was a pendant and not a ring because they had to keep the engagement from his parents. The story goes: my dad had been dating their pastor's daughter and everyone was excited at the prospect of their marriage. Well, everyone except my dad. So, he quietly broke things off with her and noticed my mom in February of their senior year of high school. The engagement was in the late spring of 1969 and the wedding on November 21 of that same year. So, the enmity between my mother and grandmother goes back over 36 years.
These anecdotes and more, which were pushed to the back of my memory, were brought to the surface on Thanksgiving evening as I sat beside my grandmother's bed and watched a machine pushed oxygen through her body. I remembered the comments and the feelings and the confusion as my dad spoke fondly of his mother. Also, I remembered that I hadn't been the best grandson. Since my grandmother had been ill, I had been the grandchild that visited her the least and called her even less. I remembered that God doesn't call us to like what people do, but to love them and forgive them. I sat there and told her that I forgave her for what had happened to me. I asked for forgiveness for the bitter feelings that I kept in order to excuse myself from feeling anything. I realized at her bedside that I didn't want to hold any grudges. I realized that she was about to pass away and I didn't want to know that things were not resolved. I got resolution in my heart that night. I prayed that God would help her forgive me and that God would take my forgiveness and reassure her if she needed it. I am thankful for that opportunity.
A couple hours later, Myrtle Marie Mattix breathed her last breath a few short weeks shy of December 19, 2005 which would have been her 83rd birthday. Her entire family, minus a daughter that died in 1992, was there to visit her before she died. The memorial service was Saturday in order for everyone to be able to attend and get back to various appointments and responsibilities on Sunday.
If you could remember my dad and my grandfather in your thoughts and/or prayers, I would appreciate it. They miss her a lot.
That was good to get off my chest.
See, it hasn't always been the case. I have the most normal, uneventful family in the world. My ancestry has its alcoholics and servicemen, but no horse-thiefs or moonshine runners or underground railroad rebels. It's just a normal family. So, this post might seem to be boring to some. But to me, it's a revelation.
I remember as a kid everyone at school and church would speak fondly of their grandparents. They would go over to their house and be treated to strange and extravagant meals and have gifts lavished upon them. It was weird to me that this only happened at one grandparents' house. The other grandparents' house had a stifling air of intolerance. I was never beaten by my grandparents, nor molested. I was never physically abused by any stretch of the imagination. But there were comments that I heard. Once, I had split my head open and received 28 stitches. I had to have peroxide poured over the wound every night so the scabs would allow the skin to heal. While I was receiving the treatment from my mother, my grandmother poked my gut and said, "Josh, you're fat." My mom tried to soothe the remark, but to a twelve-year-old, this was devastating.
Other memories included my mother sobbing because the same grandparents said they didn't feel welcome in our house. I didn't understand this; everyone else, on both sides of the family felt as if our house was as comfortable as theirs (the exception, of course, being the blow-up beds).
I heard my dad tell me the story of how he and my mother were engaged. He asked her to marry him in the back of her dad's car as they went to a gospel concert some miles away. His token of love was a pendant that she still wears. It was a pendant and not a ring because they had to keep the engagement from his parents. The story goes: my dad had been dating their pastor's daughter and everyone was excited at the prospect of their marriage. Well, everyone except my dad. So, he quietly broke things off with her and noticed my mom in February of their senior year of high school. The engagement was in the late spring of 1969 and the wedding on November 21 of that same year. So, the enmity between my mother and grandmother goes back over 36 years.
These anecdotes and more, which were pushed to the back of my memory, were brought to the surface on Thanksgiving evening as I sat beside my grandmother's bed and watched a machine pushed oxygen through her body. I remembered the comments and the feelings and the confusion as my dad spoke fondly of his mother. Also, I remembered that I hadn't been the best grandson. Since my grandmother had been ill, I had been the grandchild that visited her the least and called her even less. I remembered that God doesn't call us to like what people do, but to love them and forgive them. I sat there and told her that I forgave her for what had happened to me. I asked for forgiveness for the bitter feelings that I kept in order to excuse myself from feeling anything. I realized at her bedside that I didn't want to hold any grudges. I realized that she was about to pass away and I didn't want to know that things were not resolved. I got resolution in my heart that night. I prayed that God would help her forgive me and that God would take my forgiveness and reassure her if she needed it. I am thankful for that opportunity.
A couple hours later, Myrtle Marie Mattix breathed her last breath a few short weeks shy of December 19, 2005 which would have been her 83rd birthday. Her entire family, minus a daughter that died in 1992, was there to visit her before she died. The memorial service was Saturday in order for everyone to be able to attend and get back to various appointments and responsibilities on Sunday.
If you could remember my dad and my grandfather in your thoughts and/or prayers, I would appreciate it. They miss her a lot.
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