Over the last week or so, I have been here in Florida trying to figure out my role in helping my grandma and Uncle John, or really if there was one for me. I have been able to help some as it's been necessary but in trying to establish a more permanent role or trying to discuss future possibilities, I kept getting frustrated, both by their inability to commit and by unwillingness to change. I was about ready to come home feeling that I'd served my purpose here, and it was time to go back to where I knew my help wouldn't be thwarted.
This weekend, however, that all changed. New circumstances have arisen which ensure that my assistance will be necessary in the weeks to come and on down the road. Essentially, over the next few days, I will become more responsible, in matter of fact if not in character, than I have ever been in my life, more than some people will ever have to be.
I must admit that I am bit nervous about the prospect. It seems so weighty. On the other hand, I will gladly bear that burden, if it means that my poor grandmother can be more at ease than she has been.
These last few days have been hell on earth for her, and it has been almost unbearably hard to watch it happen. I say "almost" because, through it all, our Father has been faithful to guide and comfort us. He has been using my mouth to speak His Word to her in an amazing way. It seems that Scripture comes forth without any effort on my part to seek out the right word for the moment or to recall verses memorized in Sunday school. I open my mouth, or rather, my mouth opens and out come these words--His Words, apt and true, sometimes ones that I didn't even know I'd memorized.
He also continues to remind me that the house I'm living in, the subject of the new debate, was built by a godly man, my great-grandfather, for the purposes of raising his family in a God-honoring way. Every nail was hammered into place with that purpose. In my grandma's despondency, I was pushed to remind her of this. This house is God's. It always has been. I have seen the enemy trying to infiltrate and subvert, taking advantage of the death of my grandfather, pillar of faith that he was, but the enemy has no place here. This place was consecrated to His service then, and we will fight to keep it that way. This house will not be a stumbling block or a millstone but a sanctuary.
In the coming weeks, there will be a battle. Preparations have been made and are being made. Lines have been drawn and sides chosen. It is an unfortunate turn at best, and while I wish this fight did not have to be, I will neither shrink from where I stand, before my grandmother to shield her as best I can. I'm a little bit afraid, but I'm also certain of my footing.
*random bits of interest from my time here unrelated to the above topic*
I found a box of letters that my great-grandmother wrote to her sister at the turn of the last century (1901 mostly). I also found a book written in 1848 Proverbial Philosophy: A Book of Thoughts and Arguments. Right up my alley. I intend to read its fragile and fragrant pages with care. And lastly, I found a some poetry from another relative written in 1880. All so interesting and enlightening. Be jealous.
I am sleeping in the room in which my dad spent his first few months of life. His crib was by the window where my dresser now stands. That's kinda cool.
My grandmother has been sharing much of her wonderful marriage and life with my grandfather. Each new story leaves me both hopeful, eager, and in pain. Take it or make it, please.