“He hath made every thing beautiful in his time.” -Ecclesiastes 3:11
For months, I cried myself to sleep: “I want my mommy… I want my mommy… I want my mommy…” My little toddler heart was broken. And at first I didn’t want to have anything to do with the strange new woman called Grandma. Thirty years later, it’s hard to believe that Grandma’s house was ever uncomfortable for me.
One of my earliest memories is of a stormy night after my parents’ divorce. I can remember lying in a crib next to my sister’s bed. The rain was pouring down, whipping against the house and windows. The wind was howling like ghosts. There was lightning and thunder. I cried as loudly and franticly as I could because I honestly and completely believed that the house was going to be shred to pieces and we were all going to die.
Then my grandmother came to my crib-side.
I can’t remember what happened next, but the memory ends with me waking up calmly in the morning in my grandmother’s bed. She saved me. And her unfailing love gave me the foundation upon which I built the rest of my life.
When Grandma’s friends came to visit, she would introduce me to them: “This is my baby.” Over and over and over she said those words: “My baby.” Even as an older child and a teenager, I was always introduced to her friends as “My baby.”
Grandma’s house was my refuge. Her love was healing balm for my broken heart. Those words, “My Baby” reaffirmed over and over and over again that I was loved and wanted and claimed… I was hers.