grandmother

Behold, children are a heritage from the LORD, the fruit of the womb a reward. Psalm 127:3 ESV

Daddy Jake with Eli

At 2:35 PM, on May 23^rd, Eli Hudson Farnsworth was delivered into this world, and my first grandson was born. Thanks to 21^st century technology and my friend and cohort in grandmother-hood, Nana Beswick, I watched him holler with that funny little old man face that newborns have, just minutes after he arrived. I cried. I do that a lot and I wonder if it’s a getting older thing. Anyway, he is perfect, created especially by God, cell by cell.

Strange to think that God sees the boy, then the man, and even the father. I think back to my three births and how I have watched two of my boys become dads. It’s a perfect circle and it makes me feel like I can say “There!” to motherhood and usher in a new season of joy: being a grandma, or “Ama” as I am called.

I started a tradition with my granddaughters a few years ago where I write them a letter on each birthday. I try to capture who they are, before it changes again. I like to think that one day, when they are moms maybe, they will pull out Ama’s letters and remember what matters, how they were loved, how Jesus delighted in them even then. A year from now, I will write my grandson.

Eli can barely focus on the loving faces that bend down to kiss his little cheeks. His body is hitching into gear, all parts perfectly joined, already accustomed to this new water-less world. He turns to mommy’s smell and daddy’s voice. He trusts in every set of arms that lifts and holds him.

“Cast your bread upon the water…” A seemingly hopeless act of throwing your best far from you. (Matthew Henry commentary)

If you know me, you know I love to boast of my grandchildren. It’s what grandparents do. But there’s a deeper side to the picture. I remember a stormy night in Pawtucket, Rhode Island, sitting in my car with the rain pounding on the roof, calling my pastor on the phone. I was crying so hard I could barely speak.

“I have one son dead, and two that are far from God,” I sobbed into the phone. He talked me down as he always does, but I will never forget the hopelessness of those days, and the failure that haunted me.

I had taken Jake, who was almost 16, and put him on a plane to Jacksonville North Carolina with a one way ticket. We had a sister church there, I knew the pastor, a few people but not the family who had offered to take him for us, a six foot two teenager, big with attitude and resentment. But as we stood in the airport, awkwardly saying goodbye, I knew that even Jake understood this was God’s Yes, it was a rescue mission. The poverty and defeat that permeated Pawtucket was taking him down.

I admit that mostly desperation and exhaustion have brought me to the altar of God’s grace, laying my children down, my best, my “first-fruits”. But the longer I live, the more convinced I become that this is God’s desire. The Potter sits at the wheel, waiting. Yet we take our kids and run, sure that we know a better way than the One who made them. Christians are the worst offenders, because above all, we want to look good on the outside, even if all hell has broken loose behind closed doors.

The precious family that took my son moved out to a farm surrounded by cows, on one road that took you for miles to nowhere. They loved him, showed him how to work, and Vicki prayed over his lunch everyday before she packed him off to school. Jake was mad. And there were days when his dad and I really wanted to rescue our poor baby, take him somewhere softer, nicer, not so hard. But we held back. The Holy Spirit gave an emphatic Hands off! And it was there, in the middle of those fields, under the big night sky, that Jake met God face-to-face and surrendered. It was there he discovered His love, a love bigger and better than any mom’s.

His brother Miles took a different road, in fact, around the world, but eventually came to that same place, knew it was right, it was time, and his wife joined him. Now my granddaughters sing a song about God’s’ love being as big as an ocean. Yes, indeed.

Cast your bread upon the water, and after many days, it will return to you. Ecclesiastes 9:1

I’ve buried a child and sat in the silent ash of unspeakable sorrow, thinking, “I gave him to you Lord. And this?” There’s a lot I can’t understand on this side of heaven. But I can say that God continues to bring new life through Spencer’s life and death, in small ways that you might miss if you weren’t looking, and in very big ways that leave me speechless… it will return to you.

When I die, I won’t have much to leave. Some teacups and recipes. Lots of books and blog posts, and too many scarves. But the greatest legacy is what I see when I look at brand new Eli Hudson Farnsworth, secure in his daddy’s arms, and every time I walk past my granddaughters’ pictures. I know that they have been handed down the best, God’s personal promise to us, to our children and our children’s children Here is an eternal inheritance; I didn’t even have to work for it, I had nothing but a mess to give to him. Jesus gave it to me for free although it cost Him a lot. All he asks for in return is that we trust him with our best, whether it is your kids, grandkids, spouse or your very life… let go, and after many days it will return to you.

Listen to me, dear brothers and sisters. Hasn’t God chosen the poor in this world to be rich in faith? Aren’t they the ones who will inherit the Kingdom he promised to those who love him? James 2:5 NLT

Brooklynn and Olive shifting into gear

I snapped awake to the sound of my son’s voice calling up the stairs. “We’re leaving now, Mom.” His voice was gentle and low, but I bolted out of bed, brushed my teeth and hurried down stairs. What if the girls woke up? What if they found no one there? Would they cry when they saw me? Worse yet, would they just try to be polite but distant? Ama’s here again…that crazy old lady that flies around on big planes.

I wrapped myself in a blanket, conscious of my pajamas suddenly, and sat on the couch…waiting. It was very early but the day swarmed before me and I made mental notes of about a dozen fun things I had thought of to do with a four year old and a two year old. I was excited but already a little tense from the pace I had marked for myself. Okay, I’m a grandmother but I’m a young one. Right?

Recently, my husband and I took a trip to Acadia National Park and we made some observations. Our generation, the boomers, well there’s a lot of us. This is not news but we were shocked at how crowded Bar Harbor was and they all looked our age, maybe a little older we like to think. As we were eating our lobster lunch we watched them parade past our window. We noticed they wore comfortable shoes. We saw a few canes. Then a walker. Then a guy pushing an oxygen tank, THEN a guy pushing his wife in a wheel chair. Sorry, it’s my macabre sense of humor. It was like watching a cartoon. I expected to see a funeral procession next. Later that day we climbed a small mountain and I had to stop and catch my breath twice. CB said it really wasn’t much of a mountain but I heartily disagree. It was Everest to this granny.

So I’m not gonna let a couple little girls outpace me. I feel ready, equipped, I feel…nervous. Just then I heard the soft drumming of two little feet padding down the stairs and Olive appears, blond curls all wild and as she takes in the situation, just Ama in her pink jammies, a peculiar smile settles across her face that says; Ok, Ama’s cool. And then she accepts my invitation to snuggle in the blanket. Phew! A few minutes late another set of flying feet are heard overhead and Ollie looks at me and in a low raspy voice whispers, Bookin, a two year old-ese for Brooklynn. Her sister rounds the corner and checks us out snuggling in the blanket and decides it’s a Jammie Jamboree and then we are all snuggling and giggling and I feel something in me unwinding.

Breakfast is a bit of a free for all as I remember my Grandparent’s Right To Spoil clause, so as I sip my coffee they run back and forth from the table, chewing on bananas and last night’s pizza. They are shifting into second gear now as Ollie shows up with a dolly under her arm, sort of in a headlock and Brooklynn is spreading a picnic across the den carpet and entreating her sister to join her. But now Olive is distracted by a pile of necklaces she found and she has left the picnic and her babies behind. Soon I am invited to the picnic,and with a few groans I stretch out of the carpet and begin to partake of corn, carrots, cake, tea, and more pizza, the wooden kind. And as the picnic comes to a close I reach over to the bookcase and pull out a few of my favorites, like Barnyard Dance and Hippos Go Berserk. I think a couple of hours have ambled by and we are all still in our jams, hair messy, and thoroughly loving the day. These girls are showing me something.

Five years ago my mom had her first stroke, then another a year and a half later. Both were caused by an artery rupturing in the frontal lobe of her brain. The first one mostly affected short term memory, some speech. She seemed happier and we concluded that it was because she was unable to remember what she was so sad or mad about. After she was felled by the second one, we anxiously waited by her bedside to assess the damage. Neither stroke left her physically impaired. But the frontal lobe contains all the circuits for judgment, reasoning, memory, speech. My 80 year old mother woke up at about age two or three and a few weeks later I took her home with me, hoping I could help her find her brain again or maybe just a few pieces.

That winter, after a breast cancer diagnosis, I plunged into the world of chemotherapy and despite my stubborn Yankee spirit that will never lie down, never rest because I NEVER get sick, I surrendered to my body’s cyclical deterioration as the poison that was hopefully killing the bad cells, killed a bunch of good ones too. Mom was happily oblivious. She frowned at my bald head like she would’ve when I wore a skirt too short and the word cancer held no meaning for her. Just once I saw a look of worry cross her face and she brought her hand up to my cheek and held it there like when I was a child.

“You all right, Bird?” Yes, mom, I’m alright.

And it was there in that cycle of sickness with the simple company of my demented mother that I realized life has more than one rhythm, that as Proverbs 16:9 says, “A man’s heart plans his way but the Lord directs his steps.” We rode out the winter together, sometimes the sea raged but mostly it was a subtle breeze and the rhythm of the gentle waves as we held on together, secure in His everlasting arms.

It makes sense that Jesus admonished us to be as little children. Brooklynn, Olive and I eventually got out the door but once I relaxed and slipped into their rhythm , even getting dressed was fun. I got lost trying to find Monkey Joe’s but Brooklynn confidently told me Ama, I think I can help you get home. OK I don’t need a walker yet but is it OK to use a four year old for your GPS? We did find our way, and as I looked into the rear-view mirror at two sweet faces fast asleep, their expressions pure and unworried, I thought Thank you both for reminding your Ama how to live today and thanks, Jesus , for leading the way. Oh and one last mental note: naps are good, for everyone.

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