~Mamaw~

Mama tells me that when I was little, people at church meetings and such would ask her and Daddy if they really had a daughter named Katie, because I never seemed to be with them.

You see, we live right next door to my Mamaw's house - just a corn patch apart - and for years I spent a goodly portion of my days and nights with Mamaw. If I had a choice between Mamaw's house or going somewhere else, the somewhere else would have to be pretty glamorous indeed to warrant missing out on time with Mamaw. In fact, once we were coming home from Texas, and Mama and Daddy told me and Laura we could go to New Orleans for a night as a treat, but I bitterly resisted, because oh-my-word-I'd-been-away-from-my-Mamaw-for-a-whole-week. (However, Laura insisted, and on to New Orleans we went. It broke my five year old heart for a few minutes.)

I have so many, many memories of Mamaw's house - playing bingo and uno with her after supper, her teaching me valuable tid-bits about the fine art of cooking, watching Shirley Temple movies, her telling wondrously long stories about her childhood, but three particular memories separate themselves from all the others, like three rare orchids in amongst a field of everyday daisies.

The first is her prayers. To an uncoverted, energetic scamp of a child, it did seem like those prayers lasted hours. And she never, ever failed to pray with me before bedtime. I regret to say that I spent most of that time imagining that the patterns in the couch fabric were rivers and lakes, and my finger the boat, or hatching a glorious plan for the next day. But the fact that she prayed so faithfully, and so openly, just as if Jesus was right there in front of her, did make some sort of impression on me, and I often squirmed inwardly in the knowledge that prayer didn't mean as much to me as it did to Mamaw.

Every morning, as soon as I woke up, I would stand on the edge of the bed and hold out my arms, calling "come and get me, Mamaw!" and she would come and lift me down, teasing and talking all the while she got my clothes and helped me get dressed. This went on until I was far, far too heavy to be easily lifted, and Mama laid down the law and said "No more picking Katie up!" It broke my heart. (Incidentally, I got my heart broken on an average of about twice a week back then. I was a very, ahem, special child.) Then, she'd ask whether I wanted biscuits or pancakes for breakfast, and let me tell you right now, my Mamaw can make some mean pancakes, and her biscuits are worth their weight in gold.

The third memory, as vivid and dear to me as almost anything else in my life, is her putting her hair up on curlers. She would dip her comb in water, tap it against the edge of the glass, comb a small section and roll it tightly up. Mine was the great task of handing each curler to her, (such a responsibility swelled my little soul no-end, I assure you,) and watching, mesmerized, as her head turned into a knobby, green mass of prickly curlers.

A few days ago, Mamaw had surgery, and she isn't able to do much for herself right now, so we're all taking turns staying with her. Sunday night, I stayed the night with her, for the first time in too long.

Before she went to bed, she took my hand in hers and prayed, just as she did every time for as long as I can remember. Only now, I don't squirm inwardly and trace the couch patterns with my finger. I sit beside her thanking God for such a grandmother... for such a sister in Christ.

The next morning, I helped her get dressed, and my heart was wrung by a queer sort of pain when I realized I'd never jump out of bed into her arms again, ready for anything.

And a little part of me hurts badly while I watch Mamaw get older. That part of me wants things back the way they were, when she was the one taking care of me. But another part of me, the deeper part, is so blessed by seeing her grow older the way she has lived her younger years - relying on God, loving those around her with everything she says and does, and taking food to everybody and his cousin in the community. (If I had a dollar for every pie she's baked for somebody else, I probably wouldn't have to worry too much about college tuition.)


A little later, I settled her onto a comfortable bench, and I carefully rolled her soft grey hair, exactly as I'd seen her do it so many, many times. Dip the comb in the water. Tap it against the edge of the glass. Comb a small section of hair. Roll it tightly onto a curler.

Only this time, she was the one handing me the curlers.