Once the gifts were opened, Grandma announced, “We have cake in the dining room.” She got up and led the way.
“That was abrupt,” remarked my sister. “She must be hungry.”
We filed into the dining room. On the table was a quarter sheet cake with the word “Surprise” on it and seven small boxes of various sizes.
We took our seats and Grandma began. “As you know, today is my seventy-fifth birthday and I’ve invited you here to celebrate with me. For many years, you’ve been a part of my life. I love you and although I’m not planning to die anytime soon, I want you to have something to remember me by.”
We sat speechless.
“This is not a surprise party for me, but for you.”
Grandma gave each of us a box.
“Stacy, you go first,” she instructed.
I removed the lid. Inside was a diamond ring that I’d seen on Grandma’s finger.
“It belonged to your great-aunt Hazel,” she said quietly. “I inherited it when she died twenty-five years ago. I want you to have it.”
Tears pooled in my eyes.
“Are you surprised?” mimicked Grandma in an attempt to lighten the mood.
“I thought sidewalk chalking was a big surprise,” I said, hugging her neck. “Thank you so much. You’re amazing.”
On that, her seventy-fifth birthday, Grandma gave away her wedding ring set, her mother’s strand of pearls, and several heirloom rings and bracelets. As each box was opened, she quipped, “Are you surprised?”
And indeed, we all were. Not only was the party a surprise for us, but a reminder of her generosity and love. Every time I wear that diamond ring, I think of Grandma Caryle and the legacy of fun I inherited from her.
Surprise!
Stephanie “Stacy” Thompson
A Grandmother’s Gifts
If I cannot give bountifully, yet I will give freely, and what I want in my hand I will supply with my heart.
Arthur Warwick
Here’s the math:
Six grandchildren. Eight days of Hanukah. One gift per child per day.
I wasn’t going to provide that—not when our grandchildren were blessed with loving families who see to their needs, and then some.
So I’ve devised a quite different Hanukah plan. I get each grandchild a small purchased gift. One. It is never of such magnitude that I worry about the object being injured, maimed or destroyed. Mind you, four of the six are little boys under the age of eight.
Then I work on what I’ve come to think of as my “real” gift.
Because Hanukah is really about miracles, and because these six wondrous creatures are just that, I devote myself to this challenge:
I spend hours, sometimes weeks, preparing a letter to each child, even the two who are preverbal, to say nothing of preliterate.
I sit at my computer and secretly “talk” to it about Sam or Hannah, Jonah or Zay, Danny or Baby Emily. I chronicle who they are at this moment in their emerging histories. I catalogue conversations we’ve had, stories they’ve told me, names of their friends, their adored toys and stuffed animals, endearing habits, bedtime rituals, school anecdotes, even favorite articles of clothing.
Two Hanukahs ago, I actually decided to illustrate my ramblings with photographs, a motivation for “shooting” these adored little ones at every opportunity.
And then I stored it all away in what is becoming my bulging “Hanukah File.” My vague sense is that the years of “gifts” will be delivered when each grandchild reaches thirteen.
So what does all of this have to do with Hanukah? And the gift-grab?
Nothing at all.
And everything.
Not now, but somewhere down the road, my grandchildren may understand why they didn’t get the mountain of gifts their little pals did. Years from now, they may figure out why their grandmother asked them endless questions and sometimes frantically scribbled down their answers on scraps of paper, eager to get every word.
My Hanukah gift to these six is obviously not what they might expect. And because these are children exposed to the galloping gift frenzy of the season, they have shown and expressed disappointment. They want, in Hannah’s immortal words as spokesperson for the clan, “cool stuff” for this eight-day potential gift bonanza. And they’re not getting it.
I once heard Sam talking to a little friend and comparing notes about the annual haul. His pal had gotten action figures and a scooter from his grandparents. Sam was left to explain what he had—or in this case, hadn’t—gotten.
He fumbled. He struggled to explain what he’s been told each year, that Grandma is creating something special for him, and that when he and his cousins are older, they’ll get something even better than “cool stuff.” They’ll get memories, history, reminders of who they were at two and five and eight.
Sam’s friend didn’t understand. Nor, I’m sure, does Sam. Not quite. Not yet.
Does he wish he’d been handed a video game, a toy with moving parts, a terrific computer accessory? You bet.
But for now, I’m hanging tough. I’m resisting the urge to splurge on traditional grandmother gifts. I’m keeping my credit cards locked in their compartment in my wallet and using my loving memories as revenue instead.
This gift of my grandchildren’s lives, frozen in time, seems perfectly right for Hanukah, the season of history, hope and miracles.
Sally Friedman
Star of the Week
The only way to pray is to pray; and the way to pray well is to pray much.
John Chapman
Joyce and Morgan Ilgenfritz are grandparents to twenty grandchildren. Fifteen in one family live in Pennsylvania, less than two hours from them. Two live in Colorado and the other three in West Africa.
Joyce and Morgan have also housed 370 people in their home over the last thirty years. In addition to those who are presently living with them, they are caring for Morgan’s ninety-year-old mother, who has Alzheimer’s disease. So their days are full.
Next to her relationship with the Lord, Joyce’s top priority is her grandchildren. She is on the lookout year round for gifts and cards, and never waits until an occasion arrives to prepare for it. But she would be the first to admit that staying in touch takes some creativity.
Recently, Joyce was pondering what more she could do.
“I was in a store right after Valentine’s Day,” she explains, “and saw a picture frame and two heart boxes. They were reduced in price, but I didn’t buy them. That night,” she continues, “I had a conversation with God. ‘Lord, I have all these grandchildren,’” I said. “‘How can I stay connected with them?’”
Joyce drifted off to sleep and soon awoke with a clear direction from the Lord. “He said to go back to the store and get the frame and boxes,” she recalls. “Then he told me what to do with them.”
Joyce could hardly wait for morning. She went to the store, made the purchase and placed the items on her kitchen windowsill. Then she collected pictures of each of her grandchildren and wrote all their names on pieces of paper, which she placed in one of the boxes.
Now each week she draws a name from the first box, puts that child’s picture in the frame, and places the name in the second box for the next time around. That child is her “Star of the Week.”
Immediately, she calls (e-mails to Africa) and informs the star of his or her status. Then she asks for prayer requests. The child gleefully anticipates hearing from her again during the week by way of another phone call, a letter or a package—or possibly all three.
Recently, five-year-old Moriah hung up from his phone call and announced loudly to any of his fourteen brothers and sisters within hearing distance, “I’m Grandma’s Star of the Week!”
When six-year-old Ashley got her call, she told her grandma there was a girl in her class who was saying mean things about her.
“You just be nice to her and I’ll be praying,” Joyce responded.
The next time her grandma called, A
shley said, “That little girl has been so nice to me, and I know it’s because you’ve been praying.”
Being Star of the Week not only makes twenty grandchildren happy, it fulfills the desire of their grandma’s heart, allowing her to focus on one grandchild at a time, to pray specifically for that child’s needs, and to surprise the “Star” with gifts of love.
Bonnie S. Grau
My Present
Miracles are the swaddling clothes of infant churches.
Thomas Fuller
I was ten years old when my mother’s mother, my grandma Dolores, began losing her battle against breast cancer. She was only fifty-four and had always been the apple of my eye. . . . I felt like I was the pupil in hers. Grandma spent the last month of her life in the hospital. My little brother, Vernon, and I weren’t allowed to visit her. Our parents thought that seeing her might frighten us because she’d lost one hundred pounds and hardly resembled herself. I missed her very much.
It was soon to be my eleventh birthday, and I told my parents that all I wanted for my birthday present was to see Grandma. They finally agreed, and on my birthday, May 30, 1954, we drove to the hospital in San Francisco, about thirty miles from our home. On the way my mother explained that Grandma was asleep and not to be surprised, that she was laying in an oxygen tent, that I was to be very quiet because she needed her rest, and that I wasn’t to wake her. I wouldn’t have understood then, being but a child, but the truth was that my grandmother had been in a coma for a week and wouldn’t be waking up.
When we reached her room, I saw my relatives sitting on chairs everywhere. Everyone was quiet, unlike the happy noise I was accustomed to hearing when everyone got together at our family gatherings. My grandfather and great-grandma didn’t even say hello to us. Neither did any of Grandma’s younger brothers or sisters. I didn’t realize it then, but they were all in a death vigil, waiting for my grandma to take her last breath. All I understood was that everybody was sad; my mother cried silently.
Grandma was lying fast asleep on the hospital bed, but I could see her clearly through the oxygen tent, which looked like a large, clear, plastic box extending from her waist to the top of the bed. She just looked like Grandma to me, and I was so happy to see her. I immediately went to the head of her bed—nobody stopped me, not even my mother or father.
Well, I tell you, my grandma just sat right up and pushed that tent aside and, smiling, said, “Barbara, come here and sit next to me, right here,” as she patted the sheet on her right side. I pulled myself up and plopped down next to her, and she put her arm around me. “Barbara, it’s your eleventh birthday and before I came to the hospital I got you a present—here.” She leaned over and pulled out a little white box from a drawer near her bedside. I opened it and under a square of cotton was a turquoise tortoiseshell-covered compact. The cover was engraved with St. Christopher carrying the Christ child on his shoulders. When I opened the compact there was a mirror on one side and some light powder on the other. “Barbara, some day soon you will become a teenager, and when you do I want you to use this, and always remember that I love you.”
I thanked Grandma and gave her a lively hug and a kiss. She chuckled and we smiled into each other’s eyes. Then she told me that she was too tired to visit anymore and that she needed to take a nap. She slowly laid back and closed her eyes.
I hopped off her bed and a nurse came to reposition the tent around her. My father took me by the hand and, without saying good-bye to anyone in the room, the three of us left. That was that.
What I hadn’t realized is that my parents and relatives had been unable to move or speak while watching Grandma and me enjoying my birthday together. They’d witnessed a miracle taking place right before their eyes— like seeing Lazarus rise from the dead. I can’t imagine how it must have felt to everyone present, watching Grandma back to being fully herself while laughing with her little granddaughter, happily visiting together on a hospital bed.
My grandmother never opened her eyes again. She peacefully passed away one week later. I have believed in miracles ever since my grandmother woke up to attend my eleventh birthday party.
Barbara G. Drotar
Grandma Wanda
Life is short and we have never too much time for gladdening the hearts of those who are traveling the dark journey with us. Oh, be swift to love, make haste to be kind!
Henry Frederic Amiel
In the midst of her long and brave battle against cancer, my mother’s spirits lifted with the arrival of her first grandchild, whom she welcomed as “a child from heaven.” Better yet for Grandma Wanda, who’d been blessed with three healthy but raucous boys, there was finally a girl in the house . . . a beautiful, caring bundle named Kerry, whom Grandma Wanda adored. And Kerry adored her grandmother.
As a single father raising my daughter alone from the time she was two, I was grateful my mother and dad lived just two blocks away from us. It wasn’t long before Kerry had beaten a path to their house for all the cookies, consolation and hugs that a little girl—particularly one being raised without a mother in the house—required of a loving grandmother.
My mother was deeply devout. For more than thirty years, until her illness forced her to retire, she was a church secretary. She took great pleasure on those occasions when Kerry accompanied her to work, where the friendly priests were always eager to hear about their latest adventures, whether it be a weekend journey to the shore, shopping for an Easter dress or baking cookies.
A favorite place for Kerry was her grandmother’s lap, where she would curl up to listen to story after story. Most of all, they talked, just the two of them, endless conversations covering every imaginable subject. And then they hugged. Oh, how they hugged!
When it came time for Kerry to attend parochial school, my mother insisted, although now bedridden, on taking the measurements for her school uniform. Kerry literally stood on the mattress while her grandmother sized her up and down. Beaming with pride, Mother wanted it to “fit just right.” When her dearest friend acknowledged her courageous fight against a disease that slowly and painfully consumed her from within, my mother reasoned, “I can’t go anywhere yet; Kerry still needs me.”
Three days before Christmas, the telephone rang. It was my mother, asking if I’d taken her wrapping paper. “The tea set I ordered for Kerry has just arrived,” she said, her spirited voice as strong as ever, “and I want to wrap it before she sees it.”
I promised to deliver the remaining few rolls of paper posthaste. But before I could leave my house the phone rang again. This time it was my father.
“The nurse just came downstairs,” he said, his voice choking with emotion. “Your mom has only a few days to live.”
This was hardly possible to believe when, moments later, I was watching Grandma Wanda, propped up on pillows, expertly wrapping the tea set before Kerry climbed the stairs and leapt into her arms. It had become obvious that my mother literally lived for such moments.
Christmas Eve arrived, and her condition grew worse by the hour. Still, as evening cast its shadows across her bedroom, she insisted I dress Kerry and continue our tradition of Christmas caroling. I could barely even look at my mother, whose breathing was very labored. Kerry was another story, gently hugging her grandmother and kissing her good night.
“Good night, angel,” Grandma Wanda whispered back.
A silently grieving Santa Claus waited patiently for Kerry to drift off to sleep before placing her well-deserved presents beneath the Christmas tree. Outside, church bells called the congregations to midnight services, and as I filled Kerry’s stocking with North Pole treats, I asked God that the beautiful chimes bring peace and comfort to my mother.
Earlier that Christmas Eve, Mother had expressed the wish to watch midnight Mass on television, celebrated by Pope John Paul II from the Vatican. As the clock struck twelve on this, the holiest night of the year, and my brother was helping my mother complete the Sign of the Cross, her battle ended. Outside, the church
bells rang in celebration.
“It’s Christmas, Dad, wake up!” Kerry shouted, grabbing my hand and leading the way to the Christmas tree. The very first present she opened was the tea set. She looked up at me and smiled, and I began to cry. And Kerry knew. She rushed to hug me, just like Grandma Wanda used to do. I knew then that the love my mother had showered on my little girl would always be there, and I was the lucky recipient.
John McCaslin
Rocks and Restoration
Pleasure is the flower that fades; remembrance is the lasting perfume.
Stanislas Jean de Marquis Boufflers
I slowly got out of the car at the end of a long, discouraging day. The February sky was gray to match my mood as I walked down our driveway to retrieve the mail. I looked at the neglected flowerbeds in our front yard. Busy with other pursuits, I hadn’t planted any spring bulbs, mulched around the Japanese maple or cut back the English ivy, which threatened to choke out everything in its path.
As I approached the house, I reached down to move a large rock from a raised flowerbed. It hadn’t hurt anything in the weedy spot, but there was something familiar about the rock itself. I smoothed the dirt off of its dimpled surface; then I recognized it. It had belonged to my grandmother, Essie May Brown, and I had claimed it from one of the rock borders she’d fashioned around the flowerbeds in her backyard. Holding that rock took me right back to the 1950s, to Grandma’s garden on West Shadowlawn Avenue in north Atlanta.
“Why do you have so many flowers, Grandma?” I wiped the perspiration from my forehead, getting dirt on my face and in my curly red hair. At age four, I wasn’t worried about a little dirt. Grandma smiled contentedly as she looked around her. “Flowers are my life,” she said. “When I sit on the sewin’ room floor hemmin’ up a dress for Mrs. Alston or one of those purty young debs I sew for, I think about bein’ out here in my garden, with all of God’s beautiful flowers . . . and with you, my sweet man.”