My grandmother loved me well because she loved and trusted God in her age and experiential wisdom, and gave God plenty of room to do what She needed with me. Too many people in my life have tried to play God, edge God out, tried to be gods to me. But my grandmother was just a woman, with plenty to do, and no desire to fix or change me. Under her care I was free to be myself and learn my lessons, to be molded by life and God’s will for me. It was such a subtle, quiet gift I never noticed while it was happening, never got to thank her while she was alive.
There is a distance the width of an eyelash, a magical border between indifference and faith. And around the time of news of my conception my grandmother strode across it and planted her feet on the faith side. This child will be alright. Not because she didn’t care to ensure it. Because she knew it was a fact of the universe.
There is a story of a butterfly caught in its chrysalis, halted in its grand entrance to winged rebirth. So a man takes a knife to cut it out, cuts the wing, incising the dream the butterfly had all throughout its chambered slumber. The rest of its life it is confined to the ground. Who did this to my grandmother? Who taught her to live and let live, to let me fly?
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