Rhonda Ruth was the surviving twin, and the very last of sixteen children, born in 1918. She was kept alive with a homemade incubator made of glass jars and fed with an eyedropper. Her crib was a dresser drawer, and her brothers were responsible for heating up the blankets in the fire that swaddled her to keep her warm. When asked about her chances of survival, the doctor replied she would not live to see one year -- boy was that man wrong.
She went on her first date with her neighbor, Marvin Ray Taylor around Christmas, and the two later married, living a life together full of ups and downs, seeing things I can only imagine. Papaw's first car was a Model T Ford and when they came home from their honeymoon in Turner Falls, Oklahoma, she returned with a major sunburn, and he with an aching back from lifting the luggage and a nickel-- literally a nickel in his pocket-- to his name. Understand this is the generation that saw electricity become available to all, the telephone, and (technically) two world wars -- my grandfather was released from WWII Christmas Eve, 1945, to a wife, my Aunt Norma Jean who was a toddler, and my father, whom he had not yet met, then six months old.
He came home to a quaint house in Oak Cliff, then a neighborhood of South Dallas for the upper middle class. Their $5,000 home still stands. It was lined with rosebushes and by all accounts their kitchen was precious: their monogram was inlaid with little red and white tiles in the center of the floor, a detail I would treasure when I am fortunate enough to marry.
I know this only because the last time I saw him alive Thanksgiving Day 2007, my sturdy yet gentle grandfather looked frail, his eyes kept weeping. As I leaned over and wiped away a tear he didn't feel, I caught a glimpse of my grandmother, a shell of her former self, a woman who designed interiors for Neiman Marcus himself, now reduced to fervently clipping paper ads, to curb her creative, yet failing heart. She sat happily sitting in a corner seat, knitting I think, her legs swollen from congestive heart failure, and "weeping" -- literally leaking water-- because her heart was not strong enough to function properly. In that moment I felt the urge to begin a conversation we had never had, and he told me about this home.
Come to think of it, I know that was also God, because there was such peace in that conversation, despite the sadness of seeing them both look so incredibly frail. I remember feeling such love for him, not only as my grandfather, but also as a Patriarch. Truly I believe the seed for considering what lies in a legacy was planted in that last, sweet moment with Papaw, this side of Heaven -- a Heaven at that point in my life, I didn't think I would ever see.
That's when it hit me: She ultimately found her twin. She and Papaw were married so long their bodies reacted to one another. If she fell, he fell. Her legs began to weep to such a degree she could no longer wear shoes, and then Papaw's eyes started to weep too. But I also think he knew something I would learn in a few weeks time.
Coming home from work on December 18th, I was asked to sit down and was told Papaw was dead. Like my father, he as getting dressed in the morning and simply up and died, except he was eighty-eight, lived a long full life, and died with a huge smile on his face. The closest person to my father, was dead.
Now, I had just "quit" smoking, and while running errands the next day, I tried to push back the urge to smoke and stopped at Target to distract myself and do a little Christmas shopping. While looking at a red radio flyer trike for my child, I got a call from my mother that we needed to get to Mamaw. She was dying. Somehow I could manage the news of one death, but two? I smoked on the way, like that somehow made my pain manageable.
We arrived and she was not coherent, the air was heavy. It reminded me of the Grandma's Molasses syrup that was always present on her table when she made biscuits on the morning of July 4th, when she would blast everyone awake by playing John Phillips Souza. She was told Papaw had died that morning and about every ten minutes she would sit up and beg someone to help her die. Mamaw was sweet and precious, but she was also very stubborn. Finally, I came close to her, and said, "Rhonda Ruth! Papaw is in the darned Chariot! He is waiting for you. Would you hurry up and get in?!" That's when she looked at me. She saw me. She spoke to me and then she finally got in the chariot a few hours later and rode Home with her Hunny.
They spent sixty nine and a half years living together as one flesh, a concept our modern minds struggle to perceive, yet desire so badly we try to force it. Theirs was a love that lasted, because it was centered well. Theirs was the last generation of men who were not Boys Who Can Shave.
A true leader, he died first, and she followed, twenty-two hours later. Papaw said their entire marriage, he would be the one to drive the chariot home, and he did.
http://marshill.com/media/real-marriage/new-marriage-same-spouse
We buried them both, together on December 22, 2007. At their funeral, I noticed even then, the theme of Christmas in their story, which was made even more endearing by a personally recorded letter on a 45 record we had just found. Recording this in her neighbor's studio, my Grandmother talks of the goings on of the house and you hear her nudge my Aunt Norma to say hello to her Daddy who was away in the South Pacific, and my infant father, whom he had not yet met. She ultimately recorded this -- this beaten up 45 record none of us had ever seen before -- to wish my grandfather a Merry Christmas. (audio soon to be uploaded)
Here's the thing about God I have recently learned: He is far greater than I ever could be, and He is a fella you simply cannot escape, because He has already chosen you -- like it or not, and He will meet you where you are. He had already chosen my Grandparents' story to lure me to His love, for theirs was a love that modeled Christ's love for the Church, Christ's love for me, and Christ's love for you.
I knew that-- I mean, Mamaw was a Sunday school teacher for sixty years! But I knew I could have what they had, even then as a non believer, I could make that happen, simply because I was that good. I wanted to skirt that issue and make it real, make it my own, without all the God part. That simply I could not swallow. God? No, thanks. I never asked for it.
Two years ago I was at my Aunt Norma's for Christmas, and in my lap was a little, grey, plastic box, and on it was my Grandmother's handwriting. I froze, and the deluge began. How could this be? They are dead. Inside that box is the most cherished possession I own, a gift intended to be given to me the Christmas my Grandparents died.
It was a nail from my Grandfather's ship in WWII that was hit by a kamikaze he fashioned into a ring.
Had he not survived that, I would not be here.
A longtime friend wrote me on Facebook recently in response to my surprise at her being happy for the success of this blog and the change she sees in me. This is a woman who has known me since I first smoked a cigarette with her on the curb in front of her house when I was no more than fourteen, and she was probably eighteen. This is what she wrote:
Are you really surprised that I am happy for you?
That peace was quite simply, given to me, and it can be given to you and you and you, too. He found me.
And no matter how much you want to reject this notion, of His love, His plan, and His purpose for you, I would wager you will find yourself, curious about my next entry. Because really He's already got you.
And I'm probably gonna talk about Vampires.
She went on her first date with her neighbor, Marvin Ray Taylor around Christmas, and the two later married, living a life together full of ups and downs, seeing things I can only imagine. Papaw's first car was a Model T Ford and when they came home from their honeymoon in Turner Falls, Oklahoma, she returned with a major sunburn, and he with an aching back from lifting the luggage and a nickel-- literally a nickel in his pocket-- to his name. Understand this is the generation that saw electricity become available to all, the telephone, and (technically) two world wars -- my grandfather was released from WWII Christmas Eve, 1945, to a wife, my Aunt Norma Jean who was a toddler, and my father, whom he had not yet met, then six months old.
He came home to a quaint house in Oak Cliff, then a neighborhood of South Dallas for the upper middle class. Their $5,000 home still stands. It was lined with rosebushes and by all accounts their kitchen was precious: their monogram was inlaid with little red and white tiles in the center of the floor, a detail I would treasure when I am fortunate enough to marry. I know this only because the last time I saw him alive Thanksgiving Day 2007, my sturdy yet gentle grandfather looked frail, his eyes kept weeping. As I leaned over and wiped away a tear he didn't feel, I caught a glimpse of my grandmother, a shell of her former self, a woman who designed interiors for Neiman Marcus himself, now reduced to fervently clipping paper ads, to curb her creative, yet failing heart. She sat happily sitting in a corner seat, knitting I think, her legs swollen from congestive heart failure, and "weeping" -- literally leaking water-- because her heart was not strong enough to function properly. In that moment I felt the urge to begin a conversation we had never had, and he told me about this home.
Come to think of it, I know that was also God, because there was such peace in that conversation, despite the sadness of seeing them both look so incredibly frail. I remember feeling such love for him, not only as my grandfather, but also as a Patriarch. Truly I believe the seed for considering what lies in a legacy was planted in that last, sweet moment with Papaw, this side of Heaven -- a Heaven at that point in my life, I didn't think I would ever see.
That's when it hit me: She ultimately found her twin. She and Papaw were married so long their bodies reacted to one another. If she fell, he fell. Her legs began to weep to such a degree she could no longer wear shoes, and then Papaw's eyes started to weep too. But I also think he knew something I would learn in a few weeks time.
Coming home from work on December 18th, I was asked to sit down and was told Papaw was dead. Like my father, he as getting dressed in the morning and simply up and died, except he was eighty-eight, lived a long full life, and died with a huge smile on his face. The closest person to my father, was dead.
Now, I had just "quit" smoking, and while running errands the next day, I tried to push back the urge to smoke and stopped at Target to distract myself and do a little Christmas shopping. While looking at a red radio flyer trike for my child, I got a call from my mother that we needed to get to Mamaw. She was dying. Somehow I could manage the news of one death, but two? I smoked on the way, like that somehow made my pain manageable.
We arrived and she was not coherent, the air was heavy. It reminded me of the Grandma's Molasses syrup that was always present on her table when she made biscuits on the morning of July 4th, when she would blast everyone awake by playing John Phillips Souza. She was told Papaw had died that morning and about every ten minutes she would sit up and beg someone to help her die. Mamaw was sweet and precious, but she was also very stubborn. Finally, I came close to her, and said, "Rhonda Ruth! Papaw is in the darned Chariot! He is waiting for you. Would you hurry up and get in?!" That's when she looked at me. She saw me. She spoke to me and then she finally got in the chariot a few hours later and rode Home with her Hunny.
They spent sixty nine and a half years living together as one flesh, a concept our modern minds struggle to perceive, yet desire so badly we try to force it. Theirs was a love that lasted, because it was centered well. Theirs was the last generation of men who were not Boys Who Can Shave.
A true leader, he died first, and she followed, twenty-two hours later. Papaw said their entire marriage, he would be the one to drive the chariot home, and he did.
We buried them both, together on December 22, 2007. At their funeral, I noticed even then, the theme of Christmas in their story, which was made even more endearing by a personally recorded letter on a 45 record we had just found. Recording this in her neighbor's studio, my Grandmother talks of the goings on of the house and you hear her nudge my Aunt Norma to say hello to her Daddy who was away in the South Pacific, and my infant father, whom he had not yet met. She ultimately recorded this -- this beaten up 45 record none of us had ever seen before -- to wish my grandfather a Merry Christmas. (audio soon to be uploaded)
Here's the thing about God I have recently learned: He is far greater than I ever could be, and He is a fella you simply cannot escape, because He has already chosen you -- like it or not, and He will meet you where you are. He had already chosen my Grandparents' story to lure me to His love, for theirs was a love that modeled Christ's love for the Church, Christ's love for me, and Christ's love for you.
I knew that-- I mean, Mamaw was a Sunday school teacher for sixty years! But I knew I could have what they had, even then as a non believer, I could make that happen, simply because I was that good. I wanted to skirt that issue and make it real, make it my own, without all the God part. That simply I could not swallow. God? No, thanks. I never asked for it.
Two years ago I was at my Aunt Norma's for Christmas, and in my lap was a little, grey, plastic box, and on it was my Grandmother's handwriting. I froze, and the deluge began. How could this be? They are dead. Inside that box is the most cherished possession I own, a gift intended to be given to me the Christmas my Grandparents died.It was a nail from my Grandfather's ship in WWII that was hit by a kamikaze he fashioned into a ring.
Had he not survived that, I would not be here.
A longtime friend wrote me on Facebook recently in response to my surprise at her being happy for the success of this blog and the change she sees in me. This is a woman who has known me since I first smoked a cigarette with her on the curb in front of her house when I was no more than fourteen, and she was probably eighteen. This is what she wrote:
Are you really surprised that I am happy for you?
After so many years of knowing you, watching you suffer both up close AND from a distance, I believe that this path is right for you. I watched your video the very first time you posted it; and I was so touched by how instantly your torment was transformed into peace. you are such a remarkable lady, dear; and you are destined for such great joy. I think that finding your peace and sharing it with others is going to be such an amazing journey--for you, as well as those whose lives you touch every day. 
That peace was quite simply, given to me, and it can be given to you and you and you, too. He found me.
And no matter how much you want to reject this notion, of His love, His plan, and His purpose for you, I would wager you will find yourself, curious about my next entry. Because really He's already got you.
And I'm probably gonna talk about Vampires.
Your writing is so discriptive. I'm looking forward to.....the rest of the story
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