Tsunami of Handprints: Honey
In the course of a lifetime, I wonder how many lives we impact, how many lives we forever alter. Here I sit at the age of 27, and a flood of people come to mind. If God blesses me with many more years on earth, I can only imagine that it will look more like a full on hurricane or tsunami. Some of these people are still in my life, while others are gone now. Some know the impact they have had, while others never knew how they marked me for better or worse.
My pastor talks about how there are three
things that truly matter more than anything else: God, people, and the use of our time. I want to take time throughout the year to reflect on the people that have chosen to bless and invest in me. So often I believe that I am a self-made woman, but honestly I am much more privileged and honored than I ever realized. As I open my eyes to see all the individuals and families God has poured into my lives, I see God’s love for me in the handprints of His people.
Two of these handprints belong to a very special woman. She didn’t travel the globe, graduate from university, nor write novels that describe the human condition. Her resume wasn’t made up of one impressive title after another. Her bank account didn’t contain millions as she drew her last breath. Yet, the legacy she left behind is far more precious than pearls or diamonds. There will never be another Honey.
Honey, as she was called by friends and family, was born Florence Theresa Walsh. I simply called her Nanny. The youngest in a family of eight children, she went on to have eight children of her own with my grandpa, Richard Hargraves. My grandmother loved to love. It was her life’s work to leave nothing that came her way unloved or unwanted.
Growing up I heard countless stories of the stray cats and other pets she adopted throughout her life. She couldn’t resist feeding neighborhood squirrels pop tarts. You knew which ones were her friends. Having 12 grandchildren, she loved to spoil each and every one of us. She was known as a “Baby Hog.” I loved Nanny, and often people would tease her that she would be trying to carry me around when I was in my twenties.
She was the family cheerleader. Nanny recognized my talent for writing before I even did. She appointed me the family historian. I remember her telling me that one day I would write a book about our family. Maybe some day I will. I remember she would send me newspaper clippings of my cousin Ashley’s theater performances in high school, and she would keep me updated on the lives and accomplishments of all my other cousins. Over the years, she would sit with me and let me interview her and ask her all sorts of questions about her upbringing. I loved looking at her wedding photos, and seeing how beautiful her and my grandpa’s wedding was.
Her life wasn’t perfect, and she had to deal with some heartbreaking situations. My grandfather struggled with alcoholism most of his adult life, and hurt his family greatly because of it. He was like a Dr. Jekyl/Mr. Hyde. When he didn’t drink he was a joy to be around, but alcohol changed him. Yet, all I ever heard from her was about the happy memories, and that she married the best man. Even though my grandmother struggled at times with fear and worry, she had this way of looking at the world through rose-colored glasses. She never lost her wonder or her childlike excitement. She wanted all of her kids and grandkids to be “Happy Happy.” When she invited Jesus into her heart, you could see the joy written all over her face. She was so excited that she just had to share it with everyone. I often see her face in the face of children I teach, especially when they get really excited and their enthusiasm makes it impossible for you not to smile and spill over in laughter.
When I was in my last year of college, she died of Ovarian Cancer. I’ve never experienced such a wave of sorrow before in my life. My heart felt like it was suddenly missing a piece. It took me years to actually fully allow myself to grieve. I was so happy that she went to be with Jesus and that she would never experience pain again, but losing her hurt in a new way. Unlike other wounds, there are some things time can never fully heal. There are some tears only Jesus can wipe away. There is no end date to the ache. It’s always there, lingering.
Though she is physically gone, I know her spirit lives on in Heaven and in each life she touched. At her memorial it was amazing to hear the testimonies of her life. Her joy was contagious, and even at 80 she was one of the youngest people I’ve ever known. I’m so grateful that God blessed me with her as my grandmother. When I think of God’s unconditional, agape love her face comes to my mind. I never had to be an A+ student to earn her love, be the best at anything, or be perfect. She saw me and loved me. I think the way she loved me is part of the reason why I found it so easy to accept God’s unconditional love and gift of salvation at a young age. I pray that I live up to that example, and never lose my sense of wonder. God really can do anything and everything. Thanks for that important life lesson, Nanny.
It’s my turn to carry her. I carry her in my heart.