A Good Sunday

I went to visit my grandpa this afternoon at the nursing home. He's pretty sound mentally, he just can't get around like he used to. I am trying to get into the habit of visiting him there now, but I haven't been good about it because it scares me seeing him there. I hate that he is there. He knows it too. He knows me better than anyone.

I walked into his room, and sat down in a chair. He sat up in his bed, and muted Gunsmoke.

He said 'that's some purse you've got there,' matter-0f-factly.

That took me off guard, and I laughed. I'm pretty sure he has never commented on one of my (fabulous) handbags before.

It was a nice little ice breaker, even though it's awful that there needed to be one. I came to cry on his shoulder, and he knew it before I even started talking.

He told me about how, at one of the churches he pastored, on Mother's Day they would have all the mother's come up... and they would weigh their purses. Which ever woman was carrying the heaviest purse would get a prize of some kind. A cute idea I think, better than making the oldest mom stand up. Once at a church I was going to, I got a carnation for being the youngest mom... that was sweet.

I told him that I do, indeed, have way too much stuff in my purse... and he said it was luggage. I said that it was pretty luggage, and he laughed and asked to feel how heavy it was. I handed it to him, he held it with his weathered hand, said 'ooooh-weeee', and pretended that it was dragging him to the floor. I laughed some more.

I wondered what the prize was for carrying the heaviest purse, but I forgot to ask.

I started thinking about all the stuff in my purse. I immediately thought of the things in there that I probably wouldn't want him to see... because every girl carries secrets in her bag.

After we talked for a while, he said that he can tell that I am carrying too much. Not just in my purse. He said he understands the weight of my life, and the weight of everything that has happened to me, has caused me to be weary. I cried. I cried big fat tears. I walked over and sat next to him, he put his arm around me, and I cried loud, little girl like sobs. I cried because he understood.

He told me that I needed to stop carrying it, and give it to God, because He would carry for me. I have known that I could do that my whole life, but I forget so often. I tried to remember the last time I had a heart-to-heart with God, and gave it all to Him. It's been longer than I care to admit.

Papa prayed for me, and I cried more. I asked God to forgive me for some things, and I asked Him to take some stuff away from me, and I cried. Papa spoke blessings and grace and favor over me, and I cried some more. He sang to me, and I cried more.

When all was said and done, he told me to look in the mirror. I looked at him oddly I guess, and he said that color and life was returning back to my complexion. He told me that the cares of life get stored on our faces, and our faces tell the tales our mouths keep secret. Much like my pretty luggage, obviously crammed full of too much stuff that I lug around dutifully.

I looked in the mirror, and could see what he meant. I had surrendered it all to God, and my face was brighter. The weight had been lifted, and I could see it. My tears had washed my face clean, and there was peace in my complexion again.

Wearing his shoes, 1980