When two of my grandmothers passed away, I felt sick. Not an ordinary sickness that passes in a day or two. This sickness lasted for months. I loved these two ladies for different reasons. They loved me the same as they loved their other grandchildren. But my time spent with them felt different. I think they understood me better than anyone else.
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Each had their own way of loving. My grandma Eva was the sweetest lady. I hardly ever heard her say a bad word about anyone. Technically she was my step-grandmother, but I claimed her as my own. When my stepfather went to visit, I would sit in the kitchen and talk/listen to her as she cooked something or filled my stepfather in on the latest family news. She had a way of making the bad things people did, not sound so bad. “Your cousin T. J. got arrested again. But this time it wasn’t because of drugs.”
The last time I heard from her was a letter she sent around Christmas, I think, after I went to live with my father. She told me she loved me, prayed for me and said everything would be all right. Trust God. When I found out she died, I sat in silence for a long time. I looked at the letter she sent me and the Mother’s day card I never sent. It hurt that I could never tell her how much I appreciated her kindness.
My grandma Rose was sweet with tough love sometimes. As I grew older and we talked during my visits, she would ask me about going to church and how I was getting along. I tried to be respectfully honest with my answers. I think she always knew I was different from most of her grandchildren. I remember when I was about seven or eight, I went to the store for her. As a reward for going, she gave me one or two dollars of her food stamps. I told her that’s okay. She said, “It spends like money. There’s no shame in spending food stamps.” I told her she didn’t have to pay me for going to the store for her. She was my grandma. I think it kind of hurt her feelings that I didn’t accept it. But I enjoyed doing stuff for her. She never had to give me anything. I hope she understood. When I learned she had lung cancer, I would try to visit more often. But I didn’t like seeing her sick. Although she was short, she was still a strong lady and didn’t stand for any nonsense.
I was in the process of finishing my first book of short stories and promised I would let her read it. The day I got a call from the printer saying the books were ready, I went home so excited. When I got to my apartment, my cousin left a message on my answering machine my grandmother had died earlier that day. I looked at the box of books. I felt like I was punched in the stomach and the fist was still buried in my gut. The sickness had settled in.
For some reason, I felt like it was my fault my grandma Eva and grandma Rose had died. I thought God took them because I was not going to church or living a righteous life. For most of my life, I have felt responsible whenever anything bad happened to people close to me. I would think so many things. Why? Did I do something wrong? If I had prayed more. If I had visited more often. If I had gone to church more often. If I had taken the time to tell them how much I loved them. Would things have turned out different? I eventually accepted the fact it was just their time.
Photo by Simon Migaj on Pexels.com
I would still feel like it was my fault whenever someone I cared about was going through a tough time. Mainly because I want to help people when I can. When a friend talks to me about an issue, I offer a way to resolve it. Or at least talk them through it. Sometimes they listen to me. Most of the time they don’t. But it’s okay because they are still my friend. When things don’t get better, I think about what I could have done differently. I feel I should have tried harder.
Over the last couple of years, some experiences and people have caused me to change my mind about feeling guilty for not doing more. Everyone has their own life to live and mistakes to make. As much as we may want to save them from running into a brick wall at 120 mph, the sad truth is, it’s something they have to do. You pray the pain they feel is not too severe because you don’t want them to suffer. Unfortunately, that is the only way we finally learn a lesson and make the appropriate changes.
People can give us advice to persuade us away from the brick wall. But when we are determined to hit it because we think we can go through it, the resulting damage is on us. Not the person trying to save us. They may suffer “the sickness” of wishing they could have done more. But they shouldn’t.
I’m no different than anyone else. I have lessons I need to learn. I believe they will help me become a better person. I have learned – although it’s tough sometimes – to say a quick prayer that everything works out for the best and then let it go. Each morning I leave the house, I say a prayer for my family and friends. It helps me sleep a little better and reduces my chances of getting an ulcer.
MRIW Media 