She was telling grandma stories as we sat waiting together in front of the lodge, a place where stories seem to flow in rhythm with the river below it. And she loves being a grandma or Lala, as she calls herself, more than almost anything else.
She told me of a time when her five year-old grandson was terribly upset, nearly inconsolable. He stood sobbing before her as she sat in her chair. Gathering him into her arms she held him close and said, “You’re such a big boy.”
Her grandson replied, “But I’m not a big boy.”
His words sounded almost like prayer to me, and I imagined myself standing frightened, weary, and weak before my Father. I want to tell him, “I’m not a big girl. The things you’ve given me, the road you’ve called me to walk—they’re too hard. I can’t handle them. I’m not a big girl, not like you seem to think I am.”
And I know his heart breaks with mine. He tells me—he promises me that all will be well. I know he is at work, setting things right. But I can’t yet see what he sees, the end from the beginning of the thing.
All I can do is allow him to gather me close and hold me there.
Joining Jen and the sisterhood: