Granny

Granny

Granny. She lived to be 105 and half years old. She was my great-grandmother. She was a grandmother to many, but a mother of two. She was a daughter; the eldest out of a family of 14. Now, that's a lot of kids! Back then, they didn't have television. So, I am guessing they made children in their spare time. She was kind. She was extremely entrepreneurial in nature. She was magnetic. She was also a figure of hope and inspiration to the masses. But personally, she was…

Seeking and finding God can oftentimes be an experience that happens through key people in one's life. It's the time spent with these special people that teach you life's most essential lessons. It's the direct and indirect lessons that such persons give you that show you how to live one’s life meaningfully and mindfully. And if you are lucky enough, you experience God’s presence and love in the process.

My great grandmother was a person who embodied such sentiments. My family and I affectionately called her by the title of Granny, but you can call her Adassa Henry because that was her given name. However, if you get close to my family and me, you can call her Granny too!

Even at this point in my life, at the age of 33, I have spent more of my life with her present, then with her absent. That is shocking to me. I am exponentially grateful to have had her in my life for 28 years. It's so rare to hear someone one live to that age, let alone to have them be a part of your own family. My maternal side of my family had the wonderful experience of having 5 generations of family present at the same time while she was alive. It was heartbreaking and bittersweet when she died. She went home to be with the God she so desperately loved.

When I was younger, hanging out with Granny was often my place of comfort. In her room, by her bedside, I learned a lot about Our Father and a lot about character. Her room was a place of peace for me when I was frustrated with my grandmother (her daughter), with life in general, or when my day was bad. And it was place of solace and celebration, to honor what God did throughout that day. Without fail, praise and thanksgiving were a common occurrence that happened in that space.

The edge of her bed was an altar where I confessed and learned to talk to God candidly. On my knees I learned to pray and I understood God to be real and relevant. No time of my life has a comparison to it. We talked a lot about God in that room. We also read a lot of the Bible in that room. When I say we read, I mean I would read aloud, Granny would listen, and then we would discuss God’s truths together.

She had this HUGE, tan-colored Bible with golden lettering and golden trim on the outside. I remembered the golden trim in particular, because I would retrace it with my fingers in a methodical fashion in between thoughts and conversations. Tucked away in the Bible there was always a bookmarker. Whether legitimate or illegitimate, there was always a place marker for a particular scripture to study. The illegitimate bookmarks were often the programs and bulletins from the previous weeks at church. During those days we went to Calvary Assembly of God for church.

That Bible she had was a beast! It was built to last through an apocalypse. It was the kind of Bible that was designed for senior citizens with vision issues. The large print was astounding to me as a kid. I felt like the letters engulfed me as I read them aloud. Each page struck me as so profound, when I read them with Granny.

Our ritual was to spend time with each other, just before she went to bed. Or on the rare occasion, just before I went to bed. We would read scripture, discuss a little bit of its meaning, and end our time in prayer. Both of us would also take time to pray for each other, our family, and our personal concerns. Quite often, in our times we would also include singing hymns. To this day I can hear the song, Bring in the Sheaves once in while in the back of my mind.

The time would officially end with me giving Granny a gentle hug and saying I love you. Then, I would typically make sure the blinds and windows were closed in her room. The blinds were the type where you had to pull a lever. She sometimes didn't have the strength to do it herself.

What followed next was the ritual to make her room comfortable. I would turn on her night light or light her kerosene lamp so the room wasn't so dark. She was old school when it came to lighting her room. I bet you have never seen or heard of a kerosene lamp? She was the only one I knew that used it. That lamp was something right out of an antique road show. That thing must be worth a thousand dollars by now.

I also saw Granny's room as a place of refuge and formation of my identity. She was one of the few people who understood me as a kid and generally as a person. In fact, she was the first person who took me to church regularly, but more importantly she was the first to recognize and tell me of God's calling in my life. At a very young age I had a very close knit relationship with God. Granny was the primary person that affirmed and confirmed this by telling me some important words God spoke about me. Her words rang powerful. They lead me closer to God.

She told me that the “The Spirit” woke her up one day. It was during the school week, as I was participating in my early elementary days. I want to say that I was in third grade at the time. I'm not for sure though. She was prompted to look outside the window. There I was with my backpack. She saw me walking to school that day and God told her, “You see that young man. I have marked Him for my purposes.”

Words like that can have a profound effect on a person. For me, those words propelled me further into the direction that Life is taking me now. Those words continued to remind me of who I am when I don't see myself clearly. They helped me, and still help me, remember that my life is not my own. My life is a part of a bigger story.

It wasn't just the words she said. It was the accompanying actions. She did the combination of words and actions so well. Granny taught my family a peculiar phrase that I have never been able to shake. Whenever I say it, in my mind I can hear a collective sigh of agreement within me. It's the sigh that every family member and friend who knows Granny would understand. This phrase is ingrained in our DNA.

She spoke constantly of these words, “Manners rule the world.” Whether consciously or unconsciously, I have shaped much of my life based on this phrase alone. But what does it mean? Well, the odd thing about it is that the phrase is best understood in practice. It is a phrase attached to experience. It is more of something that is caught rather than taught. But since I am here with you in this moment, let me do my best to relay the principles of the phrase.

Manners rule the world. It's actually quite a subversive thought. It's to see the world from a different angle. For the most part our world runs quite different from being mannerable. In fact, much of the world's interactions are based on indecent acts of incivility. The truth is that the uncivil, the unmannerly, most often rule the world. Cutthroat rules the world. Selfishness rules the world.

So, the first thing to realize is that the phrase directs the hearers to live life opposite of the prevalent trend of rudeness. In effect, my great grandmother taught me to subversive from a young age. She was teaching me to be rebellious and revolutionary- in a good way.

Manners rule the world meant to do all of your affairs with care, honoring people first above their capabilities, using loving language, and respecting others even if you don't know them. All people are to be respected no matter their background or how they treat you. It wasn't being a doormat but it was approaching all encounters with civility, proper decorum, and delivering respect.

Now, don't get me wrong, this didn't mean that she enjoyed everyone she met. Let's just say she was diplomatic. It was quite evident if she didn't like you. And she didn't mince words if she didn't approve of your behavior or actions. Nonetheless, she simply didn't let these things affect her. She had an uncanny way to show impeccable respect to people she didn't know. From the first contact she had with a person, they were locked into a moment of honor in some way. It was her way of doing life, business, and interacting with the greatest to the least in our Western world caste system of society.

When you reach the age of 90+ you get away things that other people could never get away with. You are allowed to say what you want. You automatically command the attention and respect of all who enter your presence. It's quite a wonderful perk that comes with royal seniority. I hope I grow old enough to experiment and experience this.

My great grandmother had a wonderful way of commanding this type of attention. She enforced it with an unassuming gesture called the “Granny Grip.” That is what I called it anyways! On the surface it looked like a handshake but in reality it was a ploy for an encounter of truth. Once my Granny shook your hand you were locked in for something powerful. She would shake your hand first. Then she would shake your mind. Your soul would be shaken soon after.

She would either lean in close to you or you would lean in close to her. With eyes focused on your heart she spoke with intentionality. What followed next were whispered words of wisdom. Some people left the encounter with their tails tucked in between their legs. In that moment she probably spoke something that convicted the listener. She most likely admonished them and highlighted an area in which they can improve or change.

Others would spring up with excitement. Their shoulders would straighten up. They found new purpose and direction. In such an incident Granny spoke words that assured and affirmed them in their current state of affairs. I am convinced God spoke through her prophetically. Especially, when she sat on the veranda of the house I grew up in. I can't tell you how many times people encountered the Granny Grip there. Each one left their time with Granny as a different and bettered human being.

There was another element to the Granny Grip. There was the generosity also found in the Grip. You never knew what surprise might end up in your hand as she held you captive for a few minutes. Granny was famous for always having something to give. Just in the same she would enforce the Granny Grip, she would also enforce the “Pentecostal handshake.” It's the type of handshake that results in gaining a gift of sorts. (If you have been around certain church folks long enough, you will understand this much clearer.)

Most often Granny gave people “sweeties”- little pieces of candy. I know these candies very well because I bought many of them from the Dollar Store down the road. Or sometimes the handshake would result with money for the receiver. Or she would disappear into her room to find something random to give to you. The whole point was to make sure that each person never left empty- handed. Words of encouragement, acts of kindness, and intentional moments of affirmation were part and parcel. It was just who she was. And to a degree, it was something I aspire to pass on. I hope this would be a legacy in the making.

To Granny everyone was family. And every person I saw around her treated her that way. I have never met a person who was claimed by so many people as their own grandmother. Everyone beloved Granny as if she was their very own Granny. Sometimes I wanted to be selfish and remind them, “Hey, let's not get too comfortable here, she is actually my great grandmother.” (I said that with a smirk)

This familial nature Granny possessed was also present in my neighborhood. The neighborhood I grew up in was set up like a cultural utopia. Across the street our neighbors were Puerto Rican, next door they were Venezuelan, on the other side they were Canadian. And then there were more on the street who were Jamaican, African American, Cuban, German, and other ethnicities. It is no doubt that I grew up with an affinity for cultural diversity because my neighborhood displayed it.

My great grandmother solidified my love affair with other cultures and people groups by her treatment of people. I learned it by the way she interacted with our neighborhood. Her and my grandmother took care of many of our neighbors kids. We always had some baby, child, or little cousin being taken care of in the house. Whether they looked like me in skin complexion, or not, they became a part of our family.

Many times these children became Jamaican by osmosis because of their acquired diet and language. Many of them ate the same things we did and spoke the way we did. Every child in our household had to eat porridge at some point. This is very Jamaican. And each one of them had a little bit of the Jamaican patois stuck in their lingo.

Speaking of food. Cooking with Granny was a treat. When I was a young boy the kitchen with Granny was like a Bob Marley or Beres Hammond song being played on a record in the background. Everything about those times made me feel good inside. Even the moments that seemed scratchy had a good feel to it. My favorite part was making Jamaican desserts. Whether it was toto, gizzada, sweet potato pudding, rum cake, or bread pudding- it didn't matter. What mattered was that we were doing it together and at the end I got to lick the bowl. Haha!

Hands down, the best dessert we made together was coconut drops. I liked this one the most because it involved the most traditional elements in my mind. We used a Dutch pot to cook the coconuts, ginger, and brown sugar. I can smell it in my mind right now. What I loved the most was the way we set the coconut drops to cool. My great grandmother would send me outside to fetch some banana leaves. This for some reason was one of the most soothing things in my soul. It was so simple. It was so traditional. And I loved it!

Carefully and meticulously we would lay out the banana leaves. With love and care we would place each drop on a leaf. We would keep going until the pot was almost empty. Whatever was left was mine to scrape, to lick, and enjoy.

I have to thank God for Granny. Without her in my life I am worried that my future would have been abysmal. I had many ingredients in my life that could have taken me to a more negative turn. I needed someone like her in my life to give me some well-placed guidance and hope. She provided that and more. Not just for me but for many others. She was the kind of person I needed to have in the beginning of my life to set me on positive track for life.

Granny’s funeral, along with my father’s funeral, had a profound effect on my memory and life in general. There was this one moment I can't forget. Just before she was about to be put into the ground. We had a matriarchal/patriarchal Old Testament moment. It felt like we reading the last chapter of Genesis, which was fitting because I just finished that book weeks earlier.

I don't exaggerate this. I am not speaking in hyperboles. As Pastor Stephen spoke the words, “ashes to ashes, dust to dust. So you came, and so you will return,” the wind kicked up in a dramatic fashion. It was powerful and poignant. It was undeniable that someone extremely vibrant and influential left the earth.

… Who was Granny to me? She was someone who loved God and understood her purpose. To me she was someone who truly understood me as I was. And now she was gone. What do you do when that happens?

A very important way to understand the ways of God is to respect, honor, and listen to the words and actions of the elders of our society. Especially, those who have lived meaningful God-centered lives. Such persons have paved the way for us and given us the necessary warnings, admonishments, and lit paths that we need to succeed.

The art of appreciating the eldest people in our communities has grown to be very outdated in our current society. I wish this were not so. The disparity of communication of the youngest and the oldest is problematic. And I find it to be a detriment to our overall progress.

I believe if we want to understand the ways of God we might find it in the ways of the eldest in our society. We need to find the oldest people we know and simply listen to them. Listen to their stories. Hear the beautiful and reckless changes that have happened in our world. Let them teach you and I the ways of the Lord. In this we might find that we hear God in their old souls.