All
of four feet-nine inches tall and hard of hearing, Grandma Currier was as full
of vim and vinegar as anyone I know.
She
wasn’t really my grandmother. We weren’t even related. But, 500 miles from home
and attending a Christian high school with her real granddaughter, I was
privileged to be included in many a weekend in her home. You wouldn’t think
such a tiny woman could intimidate me. But this was not a lady I wanted to
tangle with, and she had my full respect. I was treated as one of her own, with
the same rights and responsibilities: midnight curfew; do the dishes; sleep as
late as you want on Saturday; church on Sunday.
Grandma
Currier was famous for her homemade quilts. I especially admired the denim
patch quilts she created for each of her grandkids, every square embroidered
with a unique picture. I was delighted when, on the birth of my firstborn, I received
an appliquéd baby quilt. I quickly declared it too beautiful for anything
except hanging on the wall. There it hung through my second and third babies,
and was all too soon folded and relegated to a closet shelf. That is, until the
year the Romanian orphans were in the media on a daily basis. News clips
showing neglected children huddled together without the basics of survival
prompted me to put together a care package to send over with a local adoptive
parent. It seemed the least I could do. In an uncharacteristic act of generous
abandon, I included the beautiful baby quilt, imagining how special it might
become to a needy child.
On
occasion, I thought of the little quilt and regretted parting with it,
especially the day I learned Grandma Currier had died. It would have been nice
to have something to remember her by, but I chastised myself for being so
self-centered and chose to believe she would have approved of my gift.
Then,
the unexpected happened.
I
didn’t know my in-laws were the owners of one of Grandma Currier’s quilts—a
full size one, big enough to serve as a bedspread on a double bed. On a visit
to our home, they left the quilt with us, with instructions to return it to
Donna—Grandma Currier’s daughter. Perhaps she’d like to have it in memory.
Before
we had a chance to do so, however, I received a call from Donna. “I hear you’re
holding one of my mom’s quilts for me,” she said. “But since I already have
several, I wondered if you might like to keep it.”
It
still graces our guestroom bed.
They
say you can’t out-give God. What do you suppose might happen if we ever really
tried?
What a great story of God's provision...He is never late, always on time.
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