is a single mama in the city, super-savvy editor, writer, video host and shameless shoe whore.
Today, for my grandfather
Friday, June 26, 2009 Today is my grandfather's birthday. He was a Methodist minister, an artist, an intellectual, a big man who gave hugs that could completely, protectively envelope a small child. He loved dirty jokes and would tell any joke he thought was good over and over again.
His job demanded a lot of his time and energy, and he repeatedly came out of retirement to serve people in churches. This wasn't always easy for our family, especially at holidays. But that need for his presence only came from the full attention he gave, that I remember feeling when he held my hand and listened intently as I told him about my senior play or college classes or being the camp where we went, just a town over from where he and my grandmother lived. As a little girl, I ran with my cousins to the altar during the Children's Moment, just to be sure to get the seats on each side of him. I beamed with pride as he gave the lesson, as I looked down at the other kids watching him. That was my grandpa.
He painted and his mind reeled with designing ideas and configurations. He taught my mother and I to play the "how would you renovate this kitchen?" game when we visited other people's homes. He (sort of) jokingly told me once that he liked the elaborately decorated envelopes I sent him more than the letters inside. He and my grandmother drove from Indiana to Missouri once to hear me read a paper at a conference. They clapped and lauded me, even though they were two of only five people in the room.
When my grandfather was dying eight years ago, my family gathered at his bedside for three days. It was agonizing and exhausting and emotional. When I got there, I put one hand on his chest -- inhaling and exhaling roughly under the weight of pneumonia and half-consciousness -- and one on his cheek and told him it was Jessica, that I was there and so glad to see him. Eyes closed, he smiled wide at me. I do not think that picture will ever leave my mind.
We read scripture, prayed, told stories, like a tribe surrounding their sagest elder. My grandmother stroked his hair, and I remember wondering how someone watches the end of life, the close of a relationship they've had for decades and decades.
As I am told by nurses it often happens, he died moments after we were all asked to step outside while his linens and bandages were changed.
My grandfather comes back to us in cardinal sightings. I feel his spirit strongly when I see red birds. And when I suddenly see red birds, I feel his spirit strongly. This is true for many of us in my family and it happens time and again.
Lil E, who never knew my grandfather but knows the story -- and maybe even his spirit -- well, insisted today that we will see a cardinal in honor of him. He rushed to the porch doors, pulled back the curtain and checked to see if one was perched on the rail, as one was often last summer, as one was for hours last year on this day.
"We shall see," I said. "I hope so."
"No, Mommy. I am sure of it," he countered confidently. "He will send one."
I loved the faith in that statement, so much that I could only nod. And I know -- I know -- my grandfather would have loved Lil E's faith, too. The faith that my grandfather preached, questioned, analyzed, scribbled notes on in his Bibles, shared, built, might just still be running through us. Might still be coursing through our blood. Might be perched on the rail just beyond my desk, behind the curtains, soaking up the June sunshine and waiting to be discovered.
