Three concrete block steps rose from the street to my great-grandmother’s house. The withering front porch sagged a bit, but it was still good enough to sit in wobbly rockers while stringing the green beans from her garden. Mollie Sparks never complained about her sagging porch, the rickety rockers, or shattered dreams.
She was a petite powerhouse, standing under five feet tall and weighing a mere 88 pounds. Yet, her strength was not to be underestimated. Mollie Randolph Sparks, a devout Baptist, never missed a church service. When she wasn’t at the First Baptist, she was quilting, canning, hoeing, cooking, or cleaning. The word ‘impossible’ was not in Mollie’s dictionary, a testament to her resilience after her husband’s fatal tragic sawmill accident just before the birth of her last child.
When I was young, I thought my great-grandmother Sparks would never die. I mean, death surely couldn’t kill such a mighty person. Age never stopped her, so how could it win? I figured some folks would just stay around forever, and she was one.
I was in my preteen years when I realized I could be wrong. My grandmother (aka Grandpa), her daughter, and I were leaving for church one Sunday morning. As we headed to Mom’s waiting car out front, they walked ahead of me by a few paces. Just as they reached the concrete steps, Grandpa took her mother’s arm to help her down.
“Mama, let’s slowly navigate these old steps so you won’t fall.” Grandpa gently said. I was waiting for Mollie to slap her silly, but instead, I heard her say, “Thank you, honey; I reckon I could use the help.”
After the church service and while I was away from the family, Grandpa pulled me aside. “Lynn, why do you seem so sad?”
I blurted out, “Grandpa, I am never helping you down the stairs! Never!”
She looked shocked and declared, “Why?!”
“Grandpa, if I help you down the stairs like you helped your mother, it means you are old, and I don’t want you to grow old and die!”
Tears welled in my eyes as she held me tightly without saying a word because she understood what I began to understand… one day, she would be gone.
Years passed, and so did Grandmother Sparks and many others who once sat on the old, withering porch and in the pews at the Baptist church. When Grandpa was in her 90s, we went shopping in town. She was healthy, but as we headed down some steep stairs at the local store, I held her arm to support her descent.
She quickly pulled her arm away. “Grandpa, why don’t you let me help you?”
“You once told me that you would never help me down the stairs because it would mean I was near death, and you couldn’t handle that!” I smiled as I recalled when and how I learned life can end even for little giants.
Grandpa navigated those store steps and lived another six years before she climbed the staircase to heaven.
During last year’s holidays, my college-aged granddaughter, her aunt Amy, and I enjoyed a casual conversation. Amy asked me if I thought I would live to be as old as Grandpa.
I answered, “I doubt it, but I would like to live as long as my father.”
Avery questioned, “How old was he when he died?”
“85,” I answered.
Avery’s eyes widened as saucers when she quickly did the math and realized that wasn’t too many years away.
“Grandma! That can’t happen! I need you to be here when I have children!”
I understood that she had just realized that my life would eventually end, and until that moment, she had believed I would live forever.
When we love someone deeply, it is hard to fathom a day when their voices are silenced, their comforting embrace is gone, and we are left to climb the stairs of life without them.
While we should not dwell on death, we should pay better attention to living and how we navigate life. Do we appreciate the beauty of those who sat on a sagging porch in a wobbly rocker? Are the stories we leave behind worthy of being shared by many? Do we ask for wise support to guide us through treacherous times? These questions remind us to live fully and with thankfulness.
We are accustomed to living without thinking about such things, but the essential things we choose to ignore could lead to ignorance. If we live with the mindset that today is our last day and give it our best, would we not believe that tomorrow could be better for all?
Or do we think about such things too late?
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Lynn Walker Gendusa is a Georgia author and columnist. Her latest book, “Southern Comfort: Stories of Family, Friendship, Fiery Trials, and Faith,” is available on Amazon. She can be reached at www.lynngendusa.com.
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