Coming Full Circle

           The black and white photographs in my aunt’s flower covered picture album tell a story that I never tire of hearing.  The photographs in the album are of my father and his siblings when they were children, and their mother, my grandmother.  In these pictures, my grandmother Elva, tall and thin, is often seen with her children.  She has a knowing look about her; sometimes serious, sometimes playful.  And then, as the album progresses, she is no more.  The pictures of my grandmother end.    

            As I sat in my aunt’s home surrounded by my grandmother’s children and grandchildren and great grandchildren, I was constantly bumping into Elva’s legacy.  A photograph here, the same knowing look in someone else’s eyes there, her high cheekbones in the faces of her children and grandchildren.  Even as I was seeing into her future, I was remembering her past. 

            Then my uncle prayed for those yet to be born, and I watched as another link in my grandmother’s legacy was being forged.  We are all aging.  There may not be many more great grandchildren to be born.  The great great grandchildren are soon to come.  The generations are expanding, even while the foundations of my grandmother’s legacy are distancing themselves from the present.  I am feeling the weight of where I stand.   I see that it has all come full circle.

            My aunt knew that when she was born, my grandmother was already positive for tuberculosis.  The lump came into my throat as she spoke those words.  Death sentence.  The remainder of Elva’s life was one of pouring out all she had.  She did not keep her life in reserve, but broke the vial that held her precious life.  She held on to nothing.

            I have pieced together the story of her life, like a puzzle in my mind.  Every time I come across a precious piece of this woman’s story I place it in the picture.  I stand back and view what is taking shape,  and I am amazed.  What should have been tragedy is a beautiful work of art. 

            She made a choice to marry the coal miner, to make his simple life her own, to bear his children, to stand up under poverty and sickness, to live a humbled life.  Others shook their heads and mourned the life she had poured out.  Lost.  So precious, what could it have been…

            But to me, it is so beautiful, because it was so costly.  I do not know if she thought of me.  Maybe she had a fleeting thought about future generations.  But oh, how I have thought of her. I keep her picture on my refrigerator to remind me.  I see a woman from almost one hundred years ago doing what I am doing now.  Being a wife and mother, allowing another life to depend upon my own, giving birth, accepting hardship, standing up and pushing through when all around seems fruitless, loving those who do not understand, and having no regrets.  She could have chosen to follow a career, to seek out a cure and hold onto her years in comfort, to live for herself.  But she did not.

            I have her blood running through my veins – the “I want this life to continue beyond myself” kind of strain.  The blood that pumps from a heart that only beats for Someone else.   I see glimpses of the same blood in my own children.  As my sons and daughter stand underneath the sheltering branches of their mother, I know that they are standing on the roots of my grandmother’s life.   

            And so, I resound with Mark when he speaks of another woman, “Leave her alone. Why do you trouble her? She has done a beautiful thing to me.” (Mark 14:6 ESV)  How many women have made this same choice?  How many are scoffed at for pouring out their lives on behalf of future generations? The world, and many who are lured into the “myself above all else” kind of thinking, are troubled when they see a woman who would choose to pour herself out for others. What about the degree?  What about the money and the time?  What about lunch dates and manicures with friends?  What about a body that will forever change when it has given birth?  What about all of those wasted years of wiping bottoms and noses and tears?  What about all of those long, long years of inconvenience?

            My grandmother did what she could.  This is all I hope to do.  I want to do all that I could have done.  Not for me, and not just for my children, and yes, hopefully, not just for those children yet to be born, but for the worship of Another. 

             This is why the story of my grandmother continues to be told, because it was a life that was lived as it should have been.  She lived it for me and for all those after me, and she poured out the precious fragrant oil of her life onto the Lover of her soul.

~Your Fellow Sojourner

Dedicated to those yet unborn.  You are precious in His sight.  

             And while he was at Bethany in the house of Simon the leper, as he was reclining at table, a woman came with an alabaster flask of ointment of pure nard, very costly, and she broke the flask and poured it over his head.  There were some who said to themselves indignantly, “Why was the ointment wasted like that? For this ointment could have been sold for more than three hundred denarii and given to the poor.” And they scolded her. But Jesus said, “Leave her alone. Why do you trouble her? She has done a beautiful thing to me. For you always have the poor with you, and whenever you want, you can do good for them. But you will not always have me. She has done what she could; she has anointed my body beforehand for burial.  And truly, I say to you, wherever the gospel is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in memory of her.”  (Mark 14:3-9 ESV)