"You have broken every chain, there's salvation in Your Name; Jesus Christ, my Living Hope." ~Phil Wickham

 

I don't go there often. In fact, I can count on one hand the number of times I've visited over the past 20 years. He's not there, and the last memories I have of him in that place involve his dead body in a box being lowered into the ground as the worst and most shocking week of my life came to an end.

But, a few weeks ago, after visiting my mother at the house I grew up in - a place that holds so many memories of him - I took a detour on my way home and stopped at the cemetery.  

It was twenty years ago today - October 6, 2003 - that he left this world in the most jolting and unexpected way. So much has happened over the past twenty years - including the fact that his grandchildren whom he loved so much have all grown up. Three days before Daddy died when I visited him for what was unknowingly the last time, the first question he asked me - the one he always asked - was, "How are the little shavers?" They weren't that little then - two brand new teenagers and a 10-year-old. Since his passing, Caleb was baptized, all three earned college degrees, and all three have married godly spouses. Being an engineer, Daddy would've loved Ryan's analytical mind. He would've loved even more the way Ryan leads his family and serves his church family. I can also see Daddy sitting in his rocking chair, having long conversations about books and the Bible with our preacher son-in-law, Jeff. Daddy would've enjoyed listening to him preach. And Daddy would've adored sweet Julie - her heart for people, and especially the way she loves Caleb, would've made him so proud. 

Then there are the great-grandchildren he never met. In my mind's eye, I can see him patting their heads, snuggling them in his lap, and carving toys out of wood for them. I can hear his laugh that would've come from observing their antics, and I know the phone calls from him would've always begun with the same question about them - "How are the little shavers?" The three in-laws and six great-grandchildren in our Stewart branch of the family have missed out on knowing the man who shaped me more than any other. He is only known to them from pictures and stories. If I view that from a strictly human perspective, I find that incredibly sad. 

Time is a wonderful healer, and twenty years is a long time. When he first passed, I had troubling dreams where he would appear - usually maimed or not himself in some way. But now, when he emerges in my sleep, he's the way I remember him, and there's joy in that. I don't dwell on that awful week twenty years ago, choosing rather to focus on the happy memories and the gratitude to have lived for 37 years under his influence as his daughter. I was so blessed in that way.

A few weeks ago when I visited his grave, I was reminded of the Scripture we had placed on his headstone: "For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, in the same way, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have fallen asleep" (1 Thess. 4:14). So, you see, the cemetery is not such a sad place after all, when you really think about it. His body - along with the bodies of my grandparents, great-grandparents, and other extended relatives who "sleep" there - are all there awaiting the resurrection. Paul wrote to the Corinthians, explaining to them that the resurrection means we are "sown in corruption, raised in incorruption; sown in dishonor, raised in glory; sown in weakness, raised in power; sown a natural body, raised a spiritual body." In 1 Thessalonians, Paul tells us that because of this, we do not grieve as those who have no hope.

So today, instead of feeling sadness at what my family has lost, I feel joy and gratitude for all we've been given. The man whose fingers I see with his uniquely wide, flat fingernails whenever I look at my own hands, passed down so much more than a few physical traits. He taught me to love God and to love His word. He devoted his life to God. And because of Jesus, we have the benefit of knowing where Daddy is now. It's not in that cemetery, but in the bosom of Abraham. He is there with our first baby I lost through miscarriage, and he's there with Granny and PaPaw, and so many friends and other family members who have passed. One day I'll see him again, and I'll even get to introduce him to the family he's gained since his passing. 

Until that Day, I will be thankful - grateful beyond expression for the hope I have in Christ, for the way I was led to know the Lord from a young age, and for a legacy of faith that sprang from my daddy and continues on even now through those he never knew. That's what this life is all about. Living Hope. All because of the love of a Savior. There's truly nothing greater.

“It was important for me to understand that I was only a very small part of her picture. She was a person before she was my grandmother, and that was something I had never precisely considered.” ~Ani Baker

She would be 109 years old today, born on March 22, 1914, shortly before the beginning of World War I in a small Texas town, and she never strayed far from her roots during her 92 years of life. Granny was the youngest of four children, and she often talked about how they spoiled her as the baby of the family. In 1927 when she was 13 years old, Granny lost her 19 year old sister, Ruth, who died during childbirth along with the baby. That loss greatly affected Granny, and she often spoke to me of that tragic event. 

A lot happened in the world during Granny's lifetime. She saw the growth of both the radio and telephone which made their way into homes in America in the 1920's and 1930's. She would often talk about how at one time in her life they had a "party line" where several neighbors were on the same telephone line. In the evenings, her daddy would play an instrument (I can't remember what) over the telephone while she and her siblings sang, and other neighbors would get on the line and enjoy the free concert. She would also talk about listening in on neighbors' phone conversations, and she knew the neighbors listened in on theirs as well.

She lived through the Great Depression, during which time she gave birth to two sons - my daddy and my uncle Bill. She never talked to me about that period of her life, but I'm sure she suffered hardship like the rest of the country did at that time. She also lived through World War II. The only thing I remember her saying about that war was her recollections about the bombing of Pearl Harbor. She told me about how they listened to President Roosevelt's address to the nation on the radio, hearing first hand that famous line, "December 7, 1941 - a date which will live in infamy..." 

Granny lived a simple life - she never even learned to drive a car. When my PawPaw passed away in 1979, my daddy told her he would teach her how to drive. Her response? Sell the car - she had no desire to be behind the wheel. She was only 64 years old at that time - just seven years older than I am now. 

Granny loved to cook, and no one in my life has ever prepared anything that tastes half as good as Granny's cooking. She shared several of her recipes with me, but even when I make them exactly as she did, they just never taste as good as Granny's did. Holidays saw her table piled high with everyone's favorite foods, often overflowing to nearby furniture because the table wasn't big enough to hold it all. In fact, she always put her homemade candy on her bed because that was the only place where there was room for it. Granny also loved to eat. I remember going by her house one day after I was old enough to drive, and she had just pulled a beautiful coconut cream pie out of the oven. I asked if she was expecting company, and she said, "No, it's all for me!" It must've been, because she didn't offer me a piece!

Granny suffered a lot of loss in her life, but I guess that happens when you live to be 92. She lost my uncle (her baby) to cancer when he was only 65 years old, and she lost my dad in an accident a few years later when he was 68. I'll never forget the morning after that accident when my brother and I went to the nursing home where she lived to tell her that he was gone. It makes me cry even now - almost 20 years later - to remember that day, and her tears as the realization settled in upon her that she would never see him again - her oldest boy.  I also remember the searing image of my aunt pushing Granny's wheelchair up to his casket a few days later as she said her goodbyes.

In her last years, Granny's mind and memory faded. I would often go visit her and she wouldn't always know exactly who I was. When I reminded her that I was her granddaughter, she would say, "Oh, yes! You've always been my favorite!" I'm quite sure she said that to my brother and cousins as well. 

On her last birthday in 2006 I visited her, and it was a lovely spring day. The nursing home where she lived had a beautiful garden area outside, so I grabbed a wheelchair on my way in so that I could take her outside for a bit. She didn't want to go, but I insisted. Quite reluctantly, she finally got into the wheelchair, then looked at me very seriously and said, "Are you a good driver? That road out there (the hallway) is so busy!" I promised her I was licensed and experienced, and that seemed to satisfy her. While we were sitting outside enjoying the day, she looked at me and said, "You're pretty - do you have a boyfriend?" I told her I was married and had three children, and she just smiled, and said, "Oh, I know that!"

I was with her on her last day on this earth - a long, difficult day, made bearable only by a very helpful hospice nurse who walked me through some difficult decisions. I remember driving home at the end of that day, knowing she had passed into the arms of a gracious God and was reunited with those she loved so much - including my daddy. 

Granny, Caleb, and Daddy

Granny was never the get-down-in-the-floor-and-play kind of grandmother, and I think a lot of that is because of the era she grew up in. But she loved me, and I never had any doubts about that. I always loved to go to Granny's house, and spending the night there was a special treat. Granny's house became a welcomed haven during one especially difficult year in my life when my parents were living in Chicago and I felt like I didn't really have a home. Granny was always glad to see me, and her home was a place where you never had to knock. I can still see her sitting in her chair watching TV, smiling when she realized it was me walking through the door, and welcoming me in to sit and visit a bit. It was my Granny I couldn't wait to go visit right after Jeff proposed to show her my ring, and it was Granny I was so anxious to call when I learned I was pregnant with twins. I clearly remember introducing each of my children to their great-Granny, and I'm thankful they have their own memories of her. 

I've thought about Granny a lot in a different way since I became a Mimi, knowing that my Granny loved me like I love my grand babies. That knowledge makes her even more special. I am 50 years older than Lydia - Granny was 52 years older than me. Granny always seemed "old" to me, and I know my grandchildren think the same of me, even though I might not feel that way. I also know that Lydia, Henry, Owen, Noah, Charlotte and Lyla see me as their Mimi - just a small part of the picture of my life. That's also the way I saw Granny. 

Fredrik Backman wrote, "Having a grandmother is like having an army. This is a grandchild's ultimate privilege: knowing that someone is on your side, always, whatever the details." I felt that from my Granny, and I hope my grandchildren always feel the same from me.

"Nothing in this world compares to the comfort and security of having someone just hold your hand." ~Richelle E. Goodrich

It first occurred on November 15, 1986 - a cold, cloudy Saturday spent touring the Oil Museum in Kilgore and watching the Texas A&M football game on TV. That same evening we enjoyed dinner at Johnny Cace's in Longview. It was there that it happened. As we exited the car and strolled across the parking lot to the entrance, Jeff took my hand in his for the first time.

I remember the butterflies associated with that event and the beginning of a lifelong relationship. As we grew to know one another during our dating days, Jeff would often situate my hand in his in the car as he shifted the gears of his 1980 Honda Accord. He held my hand as we would sit together discussing life, our beliefs, and the future. And just like that first time, he would often catch my hand in his while walking together.

January 2, 1988

In May of 1987 Jeff held my hand once more - after placing a diamond ring on the third finger of my left hand while asking me to marry him. Then, on this day 35 years ago - January 2, 1988 - Jeff clasped both of my hands in his as we stood in front of our family and friends and made vows before God to love, honor and cherish one another "for as long as we both shall live." He enveloped my hand in his as we ran to the car through a heavy shower of rice at the end of that day, and we continued to hold hands through the early married days that followed.

Then kids came along...

During the hectic years of feeding, diapering, and keeping our three tiny humans alive, Jeff and I rarely had an opportunity to hold each other's hands. Our hands were busy, clutching little hands and bodies. But those little ones grew up, and soon we returned to our old, familiar patterns. In fact, we slipped back into that groove quite nicely. 

Jeff has held my hand through most of life's twists and turns over the past 35 years. His hand has enveloped mine every night as we pillow our heads and pray together, as well as those times we bow our heads in public worship to pray, and as we pray together before our meals. He grasped my hand two different times when it was was attached to an IV as our children entered this world. And he also clutched my hand tightly the day we sat in a doctor's office and heard the words, "I'm so sorry but we cannot find a heartbeat on the ultrasound."

Jeff took my hand in his quietly beneath the table as we sat in a funeral home conference room in October of 2003, still in shock that we were there, making funeral arrangements for my dad. He also grabbed my hand as we sat at his father's funeral nine years later. 

What began as an uncertain, silent move by a young man to express his interest in a young lady grew into a comforting habit. According to medical studies, hand holding provides many benefits, including decreased stress, relief of pain, boosts in oxytocin, reduction in anxiety, and a lowering of blood pressure and heart rate. I wasn't surprised to read all of that, because when Jeff takes my hand, things are always better.

“Nothing, I learned, brings you into the present quite like
holding hands. The past seemed irrelevant; the future,
unnecessary.”~ Catherine Lowell

At Caleb and Julie's wedding this past October, the photographer snapped a picture of our hands during the ceremony. When I saw it in the album, I was surprised for a moment. I didn't remember holding his hand, but there we were - a special moment in time captured as we watched our youngest, our only son, beginning his love journey with the one whose hand he will hold throughout life. 

Today is our 35th wedding anniversary. It has been my distinct honor and privilege to hold Jeff Stewart's hand in good times and bad during those years, and an even greater blessing to have my hand held by his. Our hands are older now, and they show the scars and wrinkles of life and time. Throughout my life I've clasped the hands of friends, my children, and others, but no other pair of hands provides the familiarity and comfort that comes when Jeff takes my hand. 

Happy Anniversary, my love. I pray God will give us many more years walking through this wonderfully blessed life He has given us hand in hand.