MEMORIES OF MY GRANDMOTHER'S HOME

• • When I was a small child, I spent countless weekends and as much time in the

    summer as my mother would allow with my grandmother, Lille Mae Martin. She

    was some kind of card now. She was a straight shooting, bible-toting, card-

    carrying, bona fide Christian woman. At the time, I was not spiritual, therefore I had no idea that

    her loving reference to all woman as "sister" had a biblical undertone.

    Memories of her laughter as we watched the Golden Girls, The Love Boat and

    Fantasy Island through her ole tin-foiled rabbit-eared television occasionally and unexpectedly

    spill into my mind. Likewise, I vividly remember standing in her kitchen chair making

    biscuits with Crisco and ice-cold milk. Appropriately, every single visit was guaranteed

    to include a stop at the community store where we bought candy, muffin mix and

    dozens of cherished, yet cheaply made toys.

    In my grandmother’s home, my sisters and I were allowed… no… encouraged to

    try, explore and create. I recall cakes, flat-as-a-fritter, eaten graciously by all. Snuff cans

    used as makeshift treasure boxes; which always somehow disappeared before our next

    visit no matter how treasured its contents. I reminisce on the days where the only thing

    my sisters and I were afraid of, were cheese cloths draped over one another’s head,

    mimicking our childlike imaginations of ghosts.

    Recently, these old recollections have saturated my memory with a new

    preciseness and vividness I had not yet been acquainted with; memories which are

    adeptly peppered with details I never remembered…

    The warmth and safety which wrapped around me in my grandmother’s home, is

    one beautiful and tangible reflection I now revere. This overwhelmingly embracing

    feeling existed despite the stinging-chill of our bare feet as we bustled to the comfort of

    the furnace across her plywood floors. As of lately, I am reminded of the worn bible

    which always sat on her kitchen table; the epicenter of her home. I remember her large,

    sweet frame bent over her table, engrossed in her scriptures and unaware of onlookers.

    I remember the madness of Sunday mornings before church. In a frenzy, we hurried

    under the cloud of her puffed powders while she sat on her bright green painted wrought

    iron bed. Pulling and tugging, she managed to maneuver us into those uncomfortable

    white tights.

    As sweet as those memories are, there is one significant thing I had forgotten.

    Long before the world called louder than my grandma, Lille Mae, was the feeling

    which enveloped me in her home. A feeling of complete and utter safety, acceptance

    and unconditional love. I had forgotten how it felt all together or even, how it felt at all. I

    simply could not recall it.

    One day, I sat alone studying my Praying for the Lost Effectively pamphlet, when

    without provocation, that ole familiar feeling besieged me, and I remembered it as if I

    had never forgotten. Without a doubt, I knew "that feeling" in my grandmother’s
  • 
    

    house was the drawing of the Holy Spirit. Without reservation, I wholeheartedly believe

    my grandmother was praying for her grandchildren's souls to be saved. It is my belief

    that I experienced this God wink, if you will, as assurance that I am saved because

    someone prayed. Furthermore, myself praying for lost souls is definitely my Father's

    will. Thank God for that bible-toting, God-fearing, card-carrying, bona fide Christian grandma who

    prayed for my sisters and I.

    
• 
  

  house was the drawing of the Holy Spirit. Without reservation, I wholeheartedly believe

  my grandmother was praying for her grandchildren's souls to be saved. It is my belief

  that I experienced this God wink, if you will, as assurance that I am saved because

  someone prayed. Furthermore, myself praying for lost souls is definitely my Father's

  will. Thank God for that bible-toting, God-fearing, card-carrying, bona fide Christian grandma who

  prayed for my sisters and I.