How’s the Internet connection in Heaven? I’m asking because I yesterday pressed “publish” on a blog post that may not put you in the best light. And now I feel guilty, because you can’t tell your side of the story, which I fear may be exploitative of you.
And it’s not that I didn’t tell the truth, because I told the truest story I know about your relationship with Blue Baby. But also there was a 500-word limit. I ran out of space before I could say more about who you were to me.
You probably know this, but I am all grown up with two kids and a husband. My husband is amazing– you would love how handy he is. He could probably build you a barn from scratch after watching a few YouTube videos. And, it would be funny to see you process that he’s Jewish, especially since you speak from a time before political correctness.
My daughter is wild and fiery with a giant afro of curls. She’s like the love child of Malcolm Gladwell and Puck from Midsummer Night’s Dream. My son is soulful and introspective; he’s already quite fetching. I suspect he’ll use his good looks for the betterment of humankind. They both would love you, especially if you still keep all that gum in your purse.
I am glad I included the line that you were my favorite person. But there were other great lines I had to cut.
What I Didn’t Get To Say:
- I had a great line in there about your crystal candy jars– undoubtedly bought at Souls Harbor (thrift store benefiting Alcoholics Anonymous) for less than $2.00– and the way you filled them with Fig Newtons. No prissy after dinner mints in your candy jars.
- When I put the kids to bed, I tell them “Cricket” stories about a little girl who visits her Grandma’s farm. The stories are all based on my adventures with you and Granddaddy, and I usually can’t get through them without choking up. I tell them all about painting the ramshackle house on your property you dubbed “the $200 house,” and running through the creek looking for gold and running from cows.
- I tell her about your country church where people would take Jesus into their hearts and ya’ll would sing “How Great Thou Art,” while I played with your key chain during the boring parts.
- You taught me the words to “Yes, Jesus Loves Me,” and assured me that you believed in the Divine order of all things. I loved that about you: your faith. You made me feel like it would all make sense one day if I could just be patient.
- Every time I sleep on the floor, which thankfully is hardly ever, I think about falling asleep at the foot of your bed on quilts and blankets that smelled like you. I loved staring at the light coming through your window from the lamp post behind the house.
- Your cooking has a revered place in my heart. I remember you preparing salad once, but you discovered you were out of salad dressing. “No problem,” you said, as you simply heated up some bacon grease and poured it on some wilted spinach. Genius.
- I have magical memories of sitting shotgun in your car on the way to the big city– Waxahachie, Texas– while you sang song after song praising Jesus. Between verses, you would tell me stories about my daddy and yourself as a young farmer’s wife. You were a great storyteller.
We can talk more about this when we meet again in the Great Hereafter. Would it be weird if I sat in your lap and asked for some circus peanuts? Please save me a seat up there. Tell Granddaddy, Uncle Buggs, Aunt Zelda and the whole gang I said hello.
PS: Feel free to “like” my Facebook page and follow me on Twitter– I promise I keep it pretty clean over there.