What an interesting prompt — I knew exactly who to talk about as soon as I saw it.
She grabs a handful of tissues, to last her through the day. Tucking them away into her wooly, patterned sweater, she shuffles out of her bedroom. It’s morning. No one is awake.
She quietly, peacefully stirs herself some instant coffee. She cracks the refrigerator door open, peering inside for a minute before deciding on her default: bread and jam. The bread is toasted, the jam is spread, the coffee is creamed and sugared, the granny is settled into an arm chair.
And she waits. She might read. Or she might pray. Usually, though, she reads. She calmly, patiently glances around the room in search of a grandchild’s Bible. She left hers in her room.
She leans forward, her strong but aging backbone hunched over the Scripture, her gnarled finger following the words. She might whisper the words as she reads them. She’ll most likely have a tissue clenched in her left hand.
The sun has barely risen and she’s made it through a passage. Taking a moment to reflect, she stares appreciatively at the text in her lap. The text that carried her through years of single motherhood. The text that cradled her as she saw her oldest deny the faith she so tenderly taught him. The text that stands firm now, when her gait is not so steady.
And she closes it gently. She sets it on the end table. She leans back slowly. And the creases of love that define her face seem to lessen, just a bit.
Whew. That reminded me to call my granny today. I can only hope that someday I’m as wise, patient, and godly as both she and my mom.
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