A Quiet Faith Still Impacts Others

Everyone has a story. I’m exploring the stories of five women throughout this month through A Legacy of Faith. These women displayed faith and courage, and hope, all of whom impacted my own story. You can read the first installment here: Enduring Faith Begins at Home.

It’s the snippets of conversations with Gram that I remember most. Talks over spaghetti and a salad full of tomatoes fresh from Pappy’s garden during a unique me-only visit to their house. Conversations as we meandered our way through the Palmer Mall. Chats as I sprawled out on her family room floor, looking through old family photos as she sat in her chair naming each person in the pictures, many I never knew.

Always a question

Conversations often began with me asking questions. Like the time we sat on a dock overlooking a lake. I was in high school the year Gram and Pappy came for a summer visit.

“Why don’t you swim?” I couldn’t remember a single time Gram waded in water.

She paused. “There was a quarry nearby when I was young. Pappy (her dad) would get mad and swat us if we went near. Kids drowned in that quarry.”

“Don’t you just want to dip your toes in the water?” I teased and tried to get her to dangle her feet over the edge of the dock with me. I love to swim. Lakes, rivers, the ocean —it doesn’t matter which body of water. But as I looked at Gram and considered the fun she missed, I realized, but she wasn’t missing anything at all. At that moment, she sat in the sun, fully content.

She did that a lot; she sat at the moment … content. Maybe it was the result of a generation that lived before TV’s or electronics or the speed at which we now move. Maybe through all she endured, she figured out the best way through was moment by moment. I wonder if she knew or could’ve explained why she was able to do that.

I could endure because she did

Through my Gram, I learned I could endure because I knew she endured.

I knew she endured because of our conversations.

On a visit during middle school —”when did Joyce die?”

Later, after giving birth to my firstborn —”how was it as a single mom in the 60s?”

Then, after Emma died —”how have you lived without her?”

Gram wasn’t necessarily long on words though as time passed and years took their toll, the words she shared were often caught on repeat. At first, she recognized the slip but later, each repeated story was shared as if it were the first.

Gram didn’t give up when she lost her mother-in-law and mom within months of each other.

Gram didn’t give up when her first husband died, leaving her a widow at 39 and needing to care for three children on her own.

Gram didn’t give up when she worked hard to provide a home for her family when most moms at that time stayed at home.

A quiet faith

Gram carried a quiet faith. She didn’t speak much about it, but you knew faith sustained her. Faith was the undercurrent that kept her afloat through death and loss, and change. I heard it in her voice as she sang hymns at the Palmer Moravian Church, where she attended for more years than I’ve been alive. I saw her faith as she read Our Daily Bread, a gift from her daughter and one that allowed this woman with an 8th grade education to read verses from the Bible for herself. I listened in later years as she shared what the pastor said on recent visits. The communion that was offered. The prayers that were said.

I remember longing to talk with Gram after my own daughter, Emma, died. I wanted to run to her and away from her all in the same breath. Gram had lived without Joyce for over sixty years when Emma died. I didn’t know how I’d endure the next 60 seconds. 

But I knew I would because Gram did, and if Gram did … then so could I.

I watched her live those years since Joyce died. I experienced her love for her family and me. I heard her laugh and tell stories, and all I could think was …she didn’t give up.

Yes, Gram carried a quiet faith, but it was an enduring one. Her faith carried her through dementia all the way to death, where I now believe she worships God face to face with Joyce on one side and my sweet Emma on the other.

Oh, the conversations we’ll have once again.