Two nights ago our newly formed young adult Sunday school class had our first outing as a group. We had planned to put together a few little Valentine baskets or bags and deliver them to the shut-in members of our church. I think we ended up being able to minister to 13 of them in all. The baskets were nothing special, just some things that grandmas and grandpas would like, some Kleenex, chewing gum, crackers, chapstick. You know, little old people stuff. When I say “little old people”, my 11-year-old son corrects me, “that’s not nice.” The reality is I’m not trying to be mean. For me, it’s a term of endearment. I really love little old people. For years though, they scared me to death.
I think it started when I was a pre-teen/teenager and would have to go visit my Mamaw and Papaw at their house. We lived in the same town but never crossed paths unless we went to visit or they came over to babysit my baby brother. When I went to their house I was overwhelmed with cigarette smoke, load westerns blaring on the TV and my Papaw yelling “Murrr-belle get me a drink!” My Papaw was something else. While he always doted on me and I knew he thought I was wonderful, he was a rough man. He had a hard young adulthood and even harder childhood. From my side of town, and my fancy neighborhood and cushy, spoiled living with my two parents, visiting them was like stepping into an alternate universe. When I was younger, maybe under 10 or so, my cousins and I would run around and catch lightening bugs in the yard and beat each other up, Mamaw would give us Little Debbie cakes and cold milk and let us wash the dishes with chairs drawn up to the sink. Those memories were good ones. As I got older though, more self-centered as teens of the world tend to become, I was inconvenienced and quite offended if I was required to spend much time there. I was mouthy and disrespectful (at the time I felt I was gallant and righteous) telling my Papaw that he really needed to stop smoking and he really, really needed to stop yelling at my Mamaw. (She ceased to be his wife, but was my Mamaw in these exchanges.) So it was this platform through those teen years when I formed the opinion that little old people, while sweet, were unpredictable and stubborn and impossible to relate to.
I turned the corner when my Papaw passed away just a few weeks before Chris and I were married. I married into a family that had the most amazing matriarch and patriarch, Glenn and Kathleen Grubb. After a year of marriage, Chris and I joined the church where Granny and Grandpa Grubb were members. That meant that almost every Sunday we would get to worship with them, visit with them and they always had their home open to all the Grubbs for Christmas Eve and other birthday and holiday celebrations. I was fascinated by their history as a family. When I was pregnant with Foster, my firstborn, Granny and I attended a bible study at one of the ladies homes. I was in my 20’s with women who were much older. I remember one night so clearly, Granny was driving me to the bible study, she had picked me up on her way. We were talking about children and she told me that she had lost a baby. She had been far enough along that she had to deliver it at the hospital. It was one of those things that changed me. Here I was, about to deliver my first child and all along I had assumed that Granny had delivered 5 healthy children. I was shocked to be able to relate to someone so much older than me just as I would if she had been one of my best friends. I couldn’t have felt more empathy if it had been my own young friend dealing with that kind of loss. It was a turning point for me.
The circle of life really is very small and short. As I grow older, much closer to 40 now, I realize this more and more. Visiting with the women who were in their 80’s and 90’s, I could relate. They were me, not so long ago, rushing around to cook dinner and wipe snotty noses, getting hugs and kisses and sweet hugs from their husbands. Now they are alone, for the most part, but they all had a peace, a sweet spirit that could only come from knowing they aren’t truly alone. That they may be seen by the world as “little old people” but to God they are beautiful saints.
All the Little Grubbs 