My grandfather claimed he was a prophet. He died several years ago at the age of 92. He was my father’s father. The little bit that I knew about my grandfather included only that part of him that ‘took up the cross to save our souls.’ He lived in East St. Louis, Illinois. We didn’t see much of him during my earlier years. With my father in the service, I’m assuming that it was mostly distance that kept us apart.
My first memory of my grandfather was when I was only four years old. I vaguely remember trying to talk to him about a small plastic Indian toy. I remember being so frustrated because he would not answer my questions and he wouldn’t even talk to me. It was years later when I shared that memory with my mother that she told me that it was impossible for my grandfather to understand what I was saying because I only spoke French. We returned to the States from the south of France when I was four years old and I couldn’t speak a word of English. My mother and I had spent most of our time interacting with the nuns. My mother and the nuns communicated with each other and me in French. I think it must have been a way for my mother to learn the language. She became very affluent in French.
My next memory of my grandfather was when he and my grandmother came down one summer to Louisiana to spend some time with us. My grandfather carried a little black book with him all the time. He often referred to it as the ‘other scriptures.’ He would constantly preach to us about Jesus and how he was chosen to continue his work here on Earth. On one occasion when I asked about his little black book, he shared with me that he was one of God’s prophets and these were divine words that God had shared exclusively with him. He didn’t let me see the book or read the divine words. He only spoke about it….a lot! So much so that most of us were always dodging him. It was like seeing some crazy person who was going to dominate your time repeating the same message over and over again. We dreaded when he would come to see us and we dreaded when he got up and we dreaded when we would have to sit at the dinner table and listen to his preaching.
I remember one time, I was coming around the side of the house and I unexpectedly walked up on my grandfather who thought he was having a private moment. Something that day had ticked him off and he was cussing about whatever it was. I had never heard those kinds of words come out of my grandfather’s mouth. I was shocked. He heard me gasp for air. The shock on his face and mine stopped us both in our tracks. He spent the next few minutes making up excuses for his foul language and then begged me not to tell anyone especially my grandmother. That experience gave me the upper hand. From that point on, my grandfather stopped preaching to me and actually started avoiding me. I guess he was fearful that I would spill the beans on his not-so-perfect and not-so-God-like behavior. I never told my grandmother.
I don’t know whatever happened to that little black book. But later in years, I shared that conversation with my father. Conversations with my father about his past were never encouraged or openly discussed as far as I remember. But I do remember my mother sharing with me the unfortunate childhood my father experienced at the hand of his father. She told me that my grandfather frequently beat his children and would abandon them and my grandmother on numerous occasions. My grandfather was obviously fighting with his demons. I was told that my grandfather walked out on my grandmother and their six children. I think it was six children…..obviously too many to leave during the Great Depression anyway. It seems he left them and returned some seven years later, begged forgiveness and resumed his life with my grandmother. His obsession with his religious beliefs was blamed on the death of one of their children. My mother told me that when one of their babies became ill with pneumonia and that my grandmother begged my grandfather to let her take the child to a doctor. He refused. My grandfather prayed over the child and told my grandmother that God would heal the baby. The baby died. I think my grandmother eventually forgave my grandfather for that but I know she never forgot it.
While we were really not that close to our grandparents, my memory of my grandfather is not necessarily a pleasant one. I don’t recall him ever taking us anywhere or spending time getting to know us. He was self absorbed and his obsession as God’s other prophet left us feeling empty about him and certainly not enlightened about God’s love. I think my father must have felt the same way.
What my grandfather did teach me was that real love can’t be felt in words but in actions.
My first memory of my grandfather was when I was only four years old. I vaguely remember trying to talk to him about a small plastic Indian toy. I remember being so frustrated because he would not answer my questions and he wouldn’t even talk to me. It was years later when I shared that memory with my mother that she told me that it was impossible for my grandfather to understand what I was saying because I only spoke French. We returned to the States from the south of France when I was four years old and I couldn’t speak a word of English. My mother and I had spent most of our time interacting with the nuns. My mother and the nuns communicated with each other and me in French. I think it must have been a way for my mother to learn the language. She became very affluent in French.
My next memory of my grandfather was when he and my grandmother came down one summer to Louisiana to spend some time with us. My grandfather carried a little black book with him all the time. He often referred to it as the ‘other scriptures.’ He would constantly preach to us about Jesus and how he was chosen to continue his work here on Earth. On one occasion when I asked about his little black book, he shared with me that he was one of God’s prophets and these were divine words that God had shared exclusively with him. He didn’t let me see the book or read the divine words. He only spoke about it….a lot! So much so that most of us were always dodging him. It was like seeing some crazy person who was going to dominate your time repeating the same message over and over again. We dreaded when he would come to see us and we dreaded when he got up and we dreaded when we would have to sit at the dinner table and listen to his preaching.
I remember one time, I was coming around the side of the house and I unexpectedly walked up on my grandfather who thought he was having a private moment. Something that day had ticked him off and he was cussing about whatever it was. I had never heard those kinds of words come out of my grandfather’s mouth. I was shocked. He heard me gasp for air. The shock on his face and mine stopped us both in our tracks. He spent the next few minutes making up excuses for his foul language and then begged me not to tell anyone especially my grandmother. That experience gave me the upper hand. From that point on, my grandfather stopped preaching to me and actually started avoiding me. I guess he was fearful that I would spill the beans on his not-so-perfect and not-so-God-like behavior. I never told my grandmother.
I don’t know whatever happened to that little black book. But later in years, I shared that conversation with my father. Conversations with my father about his past were never encouraged or openly discussed as far as I remember. But I do remember my mother sharing with me the unfortunate childhood my father experienced at the hand of his father. She told me that my grandfather frequently beat his children and would abandon them and my grandmother on numerous occasions. My grandfather was obviously fighting with his demons. I was told that my grandfather walked out on my grandmother and their six children. I think it was six children…..obviously too many to leave during the Great Depression anyway. It seems he left them and returned some seven years later, begged forgiveness and resumed his life with my grandmother. His obsession with his religious beliefs was blamed on the death of one of their children. My mother told me that when one of their babies became ill with pneumonia and that my grandmother begged my grandfather to let her take the child to a doctor. He refused. My grandfather prayed over the child and told my grandmother that God would heal the baby. The baby died. I think my grandmother eventually forgave my grandfather for that but I know she never forgot it.
While we were really not that close to our grandparents, my memory of my grandfather is not necessarily a pleasant one. I don’t recall him ever taking us anywhere or spending time getting to know us. He was self absorbed and his obsession as God’s other prophet left us feeling empty about him and certainly not enlightened about God’s love. I think my father must have felt the same way.
What my grandfather did teach me was that real love can’t be felt in words but in actions.
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