My mother entrusted me
with the frayed string
that held Nana’s pearls.
How does a legacy born of wounding morph into what I hold now?
Born on her birthday, I was Nana’s first grandchild, destined to alter her world with my wants and needs. How quietly she would alter the minutiae of mine, task by task.
Picture your grandmother’s youthful hands, rounded and smooth, that cool touch on your brow when you were sunburned or feverish.
I remember slender fingers, nails finely-ridged as grasscloth.
Those hands . . .
. . . counted pennies into my palm for each dandelion I beheaded
. . . patted my back when I slept over and city sirens scared me
. . . rewove the heels of my socks with tender grids
. . . let down my hems, mended my jeans
Each effort glowed with love never mentioned: affection enacted.
But the young and self-absorbed — what do they notice?
Her small, patient labors seemed like busywork, and her folksy, repeated stories chafed, straining my patience. Then, while I was away at college, Nana inherited my bedroom. Resentment simmered. I never rewove things between us, never mended the distance. She kept sending me cards.
After her pearls passed to me, I pushed them into the back of a drawer. Not my style. Nor did I realize frequent contact with the oils in human skin keeps the living gems burnished. Like faithfulness, touch revives the inherent hues — true to the being that once fashioned marvel from harm.
Stashed away, luminosity languished.
If mollusks can spin a history of pain into nacreous beauty, perhaps I can, too. Oswald Chambers writes, “We are not meant to be seen as God’s perfect, bright-shining examples, but to be seen as the everyday essence of ordinary life exhibiting the miracle of His grace.”
So, I tried on Nana’s pearls. The string broke. Half the strand scattered. Tossing them felt disrespectful, so I restrung them, repurposing some guilty gratitude into a bracelet of prayer beads.
Now my fingers, with their inherited nails, ridgy as grasscloth, quietly thumb the pearls clockwise, prayer by prayer, akin to Nana patting my back when worry invades me.
Have you repurposed an heirloom? I’d love to hear about it . . .
Photo by Tiffany Anthony on Unsplash
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Laurie ~ Really wanted you to know that I savored this piece this morning and it marinated my heart deeply! I, too, have inherited a grandmother’s pearls that broke – and the ones I could find are stashed away in a little box. This beautiful post from you encourages me to consider how I can enliven and connect with them in my own way. Thank You! xoxo
Dear Melissa, how absolutely lovely to hear from you today! Seeing your photo again and reading your thoughts reminds me a-fresh of your gifts and wisdom and how generously you share them and yourself with others.
May those treasured pearls find their way forward into the light of day and your life once more . . .
A beautiful post, Laurie. I had a Nana like that. And now, her pearls. She, the treasure; they, and this piece of yours, reminders of yet another way Love speaks. Thanks. ❤️
Cheryl, thank you for your beautifully expressed response.
I’ve just learned of your forthcoming book. Many congratulations!! What a smashing blurb, comparing your work to two books I love. I’m on my way now to my library site to request a copy once it’s released . . .
I love your description of your grandmother’s hands. And this, “Like faithfulness, touch revives the inherent hues — true to the being that once fashioned marvel from harm.”
Thank you for sharing this bittersweet story with us, Laurie. I think, especially in this last year, there are so many pearls spilled around our feet. Appreciate your showing us what it can look like to actually bend down and gather them–to bring them back into your own hands.
Bethany, thank you for mentioning the lines that moved you. It is lovely to be in touch again. I so enjoyed your found poem and continue to think about it. The way you’ve applied the pearl imagery to the year now behind us strikes me as profound. I hope you’ll write more about that . . .
It’s always a pleasure to chat with you here or elsewhere, Laurie. 🙂 I appreciate your always thoughtful and encouraging perspective. Pouring you a cup of (iced)tea from this side of the mountains! 🙂
Oh, double yum! You inspire me to do likewise. Perfect accompaniment while weeding . . .
thank you for composing this balm.
Oh my, you are so welcome. I’m glad it struck you that way, dear friend. Thanks for letting me know.
Bless you, Laurie, for always sharing the hard stuff. We all have regrets and wounds where we need God’s grace and that of others. Thanks for being real.
Kathy, thank you for your solidarity, which is very much appreciated. Blessings on you this weekend!
oh my, these words sing…
If mollusks can spin a history of pain into nacreous beauty, perhaps I can, too. Oswald Chambers writes, “We are not meant to be seen as God’s perfect, bright-shining examples, but to be seen as the everyday essence of ordinary life exhibiting the miracle of His grace.”
Love Oswald’s wisdom coupled with your lines. So good, Laurie.
((and repurposing an heirloom? I’ll have to think about that. Repair, yes. My mother’s rocking chair is a the “Memory Menders” as we speak.
Jody, thank you. That Oswald quote is so generous and freeing, drenched in practical mercy.
Love “Memory Menders.” What rewarding work that must be!
May that rocker invite you and your new grandchild into its trusted, timeworn embrace. : > )
My husband, Mike, had lived in an apartment above a bowling alley after he was born. His father worked occasionally in the alleys below setting bowling pins. He remembers the sounds and smells of that place to this day. Early this summer, I read a listing online for pieces of that alley being sold, as the business was being remodeled. Mike bought a piece of that alley and made it into a lovely bench, complete with legs from my grandmother’s unrepairable piano which I banged on constantly as a child. Two families not only joined by marriage, but by memories.
Wendie, I started reading your comment and immediately vivid memories bubbled up, the machinery doing its work, the thundering fall of the pins, smoky conversations among the regulars — and, of course, the thud as my ball dropped into the gutter, again. The bench Mike created that enjoins and encompasses your separate childhoods and family lines and the music of the game as well as the piano sounds Beyond Amazing! I am glad to know such a bench exists.
So deep. Really made me think. And love Oswald’s quote. Will borrow that.
Gena, I know what you mean about the Oswald quote. I find it liberating as well as realistic.
Thanks for taking the pearl journey with me . . . and going deep. Love you!
Although I am not visiting my email enough to see all your hopeful, shining words, I appreciate each one as I read, all gems in themselves, prayer beads to stroke and ponder.
Lisa, hello! Thoughts like these from a fellow wordsmith are such a gift. Thank you so much for reading today and leaving this lovely encouragement.
We are now the caretakers of a number of hand-me-down heirlooms, but I can’t think of one we’ve repurposed unless it’s the nine framed doilies on the guest room wall, that once graced the furniture of our grandmothers’ homes. Your Nana would be so pleased to know her pearls slip through your fingers each day as you pray, Laurie. Perhaps she does know.
I love that you framed them, Nancy! Did they crochet them? I hope your grandmothers and mine know. That notion of continuity is such a comfort.
I’m guessing these beautiful pearls rest in a place you’re able to see and touch them every day. That, In itself, is a tribute to your grandmother, Laurie. What a sweet reminder!
Susie, I hadn’t thought of that. How comforting this is. Thank you!
Nana would be grateful to know where those pearls are today.
In the hands… of “hers.”
Thank you for transparency.
My mom died over a year ago.
Realized she would never pray again.
Felt a tad vulnerable.
Now I have chosen to take on that mantle and pray for hers.
I say like this, Me, Mine, Mom’s and others.
Like you and yours.
r
I appreciate that way of looking at the word “hers,” Rick, thank you: It adds another layer of meaning.
What a reverberating loss for us when our mothers cross over. (I realize not every mother/child story ends that way, but it sounds like you were richly blessed in your relationship.)
And what a moving stance you have chosen, taking on that mantle of prayer and extending its reach. To use your words, your mother “would be grateful to know.”
Never repurpose a bedroom before it’s time
Sounds like there’s a good story behind that advice . . .