Complimentary Gum and Sunday Mornings
“Do you want a piece of gum?”
I can still hear Mary’s voice as she asked the question so many times while rummaging through her purse. Most often, we were sitting in a church pew waiting for the service to begin. Sometimes she offered a choice between cinnamon or spearmint. Other times she tore the last piece in half and shared it. Simply because she wanted to, never because she had to.
The moment always passed quickly. The pianist and organist take their places. The song director instructs the congregation to open their hymnals to the selected song. I loved those moments with her- she sang and listened to the sermon. I sang too. Until I would start flipping through her Bible to find the keepsakes and paper wedding napkins pressed inside. Mary valued moments and honored them by pressing any flat keepsake into her Bible. For a young girl like me, her Bible was a treasure trove far beyond the words written inside
Those Sunday mornings were the gentlest that she would be. On the other days she was much sterner. I truly do not recall her smiling or laughing. That does not presume that she never laughed or smiled, but her personality- her character was much more utilitarian. As a child- a teenager- young adult, I could never understand why. As the years pass without her, and I grow older every day, I have a better understanding. More life experiences to pull from. Life was hard on her. A husband who abandoned her to raise two boys alone and the resulting circumstances that made her sturdy. For me though- she was just there, for the first 20 years of my life.
A core memory maker.
At home, the truth of that sturdiness lived in the rhythm of her days. She said no more often than yes. Cigarettes were smoked at the table. Family meals were cooked and shared. Puzzles were in progress. Bible reading took place. The television played her favorite daytime soaps and Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. Quiet moments were spent in her room with the record player spinning, her favorite tunes filling the space. She could wield a crock-pot and cast-iron skillet with the best of them, and she did. Often. I think of meals under her direction, and I still know the serving order like the back of my hand. Men first because they worked hard in blue collar jobs, then children, then women. I suppose a traditional table for those who experienced the hardships that she had. She bought the food and hosted the meal- everyone respected her rule.
Mary fed people she loved. I feed people I love.
There was a hidden gentleness in her for anyone willing to look deeper. It showed up in small, ordinary ways. She made post-Thanksgiving turkey salad because she knew we liked it. She offered to share her fish sticks when we were with her on quiet afternoons. If we helped her pick up pecans to sell, she would give us a small monetary payment. Her way of saying thank you. She did not attract attention to herself, but she was present.
She was present, and that counted.
How often do we stop and truly reflect on how simply being present matters? When I think back on those moments with Mary, the sternest of my great-grandmothers, I do not recall perfection. I do not recall an overly affectionate nature or obvious kindness. What I remember most is her quiet and steady willingness to show up and just be. That was how she showed love. It was not loud, flashy, or false and for her family that was enough.
It has been so long since she left us. I was a young bride when I attended her funeral. But I carry pieces of her with me every day. I hold her memory close like a well-kept secret. A quiet treasure and I miss her. I would like to think that if offered one more chance to turn the pages of Mary’s Bible, I would find my way to this:
“Dear children, let us not love with words or speech but with actions and in truth.” 1 John 3:18
The tables that raise us never really let us go. Our departed table guests live on in the everyday things. The way we stir a pot. Hum along to an old song. Keep a Bible close by with something precious tucked inside. As sweet as that is, the reality is also this. The seasons change and the years pass. We will lose more of our people. Eventually, the door that leads to our own tables will close. Hopefully, we will have loved enough and shared enough that we are able to live on in everyday things too.
Now, I ask you. Who was your Great-Grandmother Mary- the one whose love showed up in quiet ways?
Shaunta
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