Grandmothers

I got back tonight (1 am, really) from a memorial service in Tennessee. Coming on the heels of my Mom-Mom Craver’s funeral last weekend, it felt especially poignant in celebrating the life of a woman who was my own grandmother overseas. Both women—Mom-Mom Craver (Thelma) and Joan Britton—were more important to me than I can possibly say, and with both, I’m still mourning the hole they’ve left behind them in my life while celebrating the lives they led while they were alive. As late as it is, and as exhausting as the last three weeks have been, I find that I have too much on my mind about these two women to get to sleep quite yet. Few but my own siblings who knew and loved both women will probably understand and appreciate this post, but I find I cannot go to bed without writing out and thinking back over some of the ways these two women have made the world a better place.

Mom-Mom was my Mom’s mom, my grandmother who came to Bonaire for each of us kids’ birth. She went grocery shopping in her bathing suit and pushed me on my swing. She listened to me as I learned to read and corrected my letters with red pen. She scolded me for chewing with my mouth open and hugged and kissed me every time she saw me.

The very first time I saw Joan Britton, we had just moved to Slovakia. I was nine, and grieving the loss of all my “family” of aunts, uncles, and friends from Bonaire. She and her husband introduced themselves as Mr. and Mrs. “B,” but immediately followed that up with an offer to call them Aunt Joan and Uncle Skip. At the time, I remember feeling a bit resentful and not at all ready to call some strangers by those beloved titles. It wasn’t long, however, before I started calling them something else in my own head: Grandma B and Grandpa B. In what seemed like no time at all, they had made themselves a niche in my heart and soon became dear friends and confidantes. They were there for me during a very difficult transition in country, culture, language, and friendships, meeting us to take us to a new church and helping us learn the public transportation system in a new city. They had us over to their flat, gave us good food, and spent afternoons playing card games such as “golf” with five lonely children.

Mom-Mom invited each one of us Hill kids over to her house every furlough for a special sleepover, one at a time. On my turns, I would go to her house and watch in the kitchen, later on helping out as I got older. We’d eat a good dinner together, and she’d always make sure to have some flaky biscuits and her homemade strawberry jelly waiting for me to munch on. After dinner and dishes, we’d sit around and talk for awhile about anything—life on Bonaire, life in Slovakia, how furlough was going, hurts and pains with siblings, laughter and jokes with siblings, school, and more. Mom-Mom had one or two boys she kept an eye on and teased me about every furlough, laughing when I’d blush and calling me “Mrs. S------.” She made me feel important and directed the entire evening around what I wanted. In a family of seven rushing around in the busyness of churches and meetings, it meant a lot to be singled out and have undivided and caring attention.

Grandma B did the same: she saw a little girl struggling to understand what was going on around her, struggling to live and love and make a new place for herself in a strange world. I remember seeing my friends in my local village school with their grandparents, and I remember following some of them around pretending they were my grandparents. Family has always been important to me, and while we’ve had aunts and uncles in every country we’ve lived in, grandparents were another thing. I missed my grandparents, wishing they could visit or even live nearby. The Brittons helped fill that void, stepping in and love my siblings and me so thoroughly that we couldn’t help but feel at home with them. On our second year in Slovakia, our families moved into the same building—we had the upper two floors and a basement, while they had an apartment on the main floor.

Christmases were a beautiful thing— a blending of love from all of our grandparents. Mom-Mom and Pop-pop would call us to talk to each one of us individually, despite the extravagantly expensive phone costs they’d incur by calling overseas. We’d get together all through the season to watch Christmas movies with the Brittons, Grandpa B making fudge and popcorn and us Hill kids making Christmas cookies. Mom-mom would send us our Christmas presents and the excitement would be full throttle—my most memorable gift from them being a beautiful wood standing jewelry box with a place for necklaces to hang and drawers for rings and earrings. I still use it to this day, some ten plus years after I received it. Grandma B would bring her knitting up to our home and knit as she talked or watched the movie.

It was handcrafts that served as another link between my natural grandmother and my heart grandmother—Mom-Mom Craver crocheted and Grandma B knitted. Allison had taught me to crochet as far back as when I was five and still on Bonaire, but somehow nothing I made ever remotely resembled what it was supposed to. Likewise with knitting, an American high school exchange student taught me what she knew, but my knitting somehow looked like something out of a Dr. Seuss book—completely to my chagrin. I decided one year that I wanted to knit a hat for Stephen for Christmas, but had no idea how to go about it. I approached Grandma B, and the next thing I knew was I was invited down to their flat for some knitting time. She had a bunch of yarn that I was able to choose from (which was beyond exciting) and brought out a pattern book where I chose my hat style from. I can still remember sitting on her living room couch, her on my right, with one knitting needle nestled in my lap and the other perpendicular to it high in the air. My stitches were slow and painstaking, and at first I didn’t have the eye to see the differences that the varying stitches made. Every time I lost my place in my pattern, I’d have to count all my stitches for that row and then resume from there. It was Grandma B who periodically looked over my work and told me that I’d made purl stitches where the stitches were supposed to be knit, or knit stitches where I needed to purl them. She taught me the value of good work—of undoing what you’ve done wrong to fix it so you don’t have an uglier problem later on. A few times we had to undo so much work that I had to fight down tears and discouragement, but each time she praised my work and perseverance and set me to knitting aright again.

With Mom-mom my interest came a year or two later. We were sitting together on her couch as I watched cartoons and she crocheted. I remember watching her and admiring her work out loud, saying how I wished I could do that. Without further ado, she got up, announced we were going shopping, and took me to the store to buy $78 worth of pretty yarn. When we got back home, she showed me how many stitches to cast on and then left me to my work while she went to the table and carefully wrote out her pattern. As I finished each stage, she gave me instructions on the next. Miraculously, my work was, for once, even. No unintended addition of stitches, no dropped stitches. We frequently had to unravel and more than once I felt ready to give up, but the prospect of embarking on my first real crocheting project and making Mom-Mom proud outweighed any disappointment with how slowly I was working. It took me several years of working away at my blanket, but I finally finished it. It covers a single bed from floor to floor and drapes over it beautifully. I’ve made blankets since then, spending a lot of time and money making calluses from the yarn, but this is the one blanket I’ve not been able to give away. I look at it and see a grandmother’s gift of love, patience, knowledge, time, and money, while I made every stitch in the blanket, it was her hands that guided me and her belief in me that kept me at it. She gave me a pattern that is distinctly hers, and as I make each new blanket to give to someone special to me, a part of her is woven into it, giving even after she herself is gone.

To finish Stevie’s hat in secret, Grandma B invited me to knit in her flat rather than risk knitting in my home and him happening upon it. This was the start of a special relationship with them where I fully felt not just one of the Hill kids, but special in my own right and having a unique relationship with her. Coming down and knitting on her couch when she was around soon became an invitation to come down any time I wanted, whether or not they were there, and knit on the couch. It wasn’t long before I became the go-to person for taking care of Grandpa B’s African violets when they went on trips. I had my own little key to their door—the only person that I knew of. Again, in a family of seven, it made a huge difference to have an adult offer me a place where I could come and either enjoy one-on-one time with a grown-up, or have some private space to myself in an empty apartment. Some of my best thinking that year was done on their couch, musing quietly to myself as I painstakingly knit each stitch. The sense of accomplishment I felt  when I finished the hat was beyond anything I could remember feeling pride in before. This was my first completed project that I was proud of. I’d made something with my own hands and not only was it recognizable, it was cute. And yet it wasn’t just the gift of knowledge and time that makes me recall this time so fondly—it was the sense of self-worth I gained from it. The knowledge that adults besides just my parents cared for me, and grown-ups who weren’t family who loved me as much as if I were their family. It was the sense of pride in myself for being responsible enough to take care of their plants. It was remembering my Mom’s words that integrity is doing the right thing even when no one is watching—so no matter how much I wanted to snoop around in their house, checking out what a grown-up’s house was like and glorying in being the only one home, I very carefully minded my own business and felt downright proud about my resistance to curiosity! Even that little step of acting in their house when I was alone as I would if they were there has come back to me since, reminding me of the importance of trust, responsibility, and integrity.

On our special nights at Mom-Mom and Pop-pop’s house, part of tradition was that I’d get to pick out any movie I wanted to watch. Pop-pop used to tape TV movies a lot, and they had what seemed like a huge collection of movies to choose from. Often I fell back on an old favorite: The Chipmunk Adventure. Pop-pop would groan every time I or one of my siblings would choose it (especially when we would choose the same movie in succession as one after the other of us would spend our night at their house and we’d all want to watch it), but he’d sit down and watch at least the first part of it with Mom-Mom and I. Then he would go off to his room and Mom-Mom, normally an early to bed person, would stay up “late” watching it with me. She would frequently have pretzels and homemade ice cream on hand, and sometimes even some homemade cherry cake made by my Aunt Debbie. Other times I would ask Mom-Mom for a movie recommendation. It was at her suggestion that I watched “Brigadoon,” “The Music Man,” “Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris,” and so much more. We’d snuggle together on the couch or lie on our bellies on the floor, chins in our hands as we watched together. She never complained about my movie choice, but always acted like it was the happiest thing in the world to be watching a movie with me.

After the movie finished, Mom-Mom would tuck me into bed in my favourite room of the house—the blue room. Sometimes she would sleep next to me, sometimes I would have the whole double bed to myself. Both were fun and novel experiences. Either way, she would always be up before me in the morning and when I would finally get up, she’d want to know what I wanted for breakfast. Every time, my choice was the same: crepes. She’s sigh, smile, and get to work making them. I remember one time that Allison and Heather spent the night with me and the three of us chose her crepes for breakfast. Somehow as we were sitting around her table waiting our turns for the next finished crepe, it became a bit of an unstated contest. Allison ate… Heather ate…and I ate. And ate. And ate. Mom-Mom finished one recipe of crepes and Heather and I were still hungry. She finished the second recipe and I was still hungry. What did she do? She went back and mixed up a third batch of crepe batter and made me more crepes yet. Mom-Mom’s crepes weren’t for the faint of heart, either, but were perfect circles that hung over the edges of our large plates on every side. At final count, Allison had three, Heather had seven, and I had twenty-three crepes.

With both women, I learned so much about right and wrong, how to love and be loved. I remember wandering through the Christmas Market in Bratislava with Grandma B, listening to local school children sing “White Christmas” from the stage. I remember playing for hours in the woods behind Mom-Mom’s house, helping her as she would walk out to her garden at the border of the yard and woods to take care of her flowers. I remember learning Dutch Blitz with the Brittons with Allison and Heather. I remember lying to Mom-Mom and her disappointment in me shaming me and making me promise to myself I would never lie to her again. I remember the night the Lesondaks got iced in after the Ivanka Christmas party and ended up coming back to the house we shared with the Brittons. With the eight of them, seven of us, two Brittons, plus several single missionaries staying with the Lesondaks, we had all the space in our two apartments used up by bodies on floors, couches, beds, and just about any other flat surface. The next morning our families pooled resources and shared a breakfast over three floors. The rest of the day we spent playing card games, making snowmen and throwing ice at each other, and eating fudge.

I remember going to the market with Mom-Mom to take my Uncle George’s produce. She would let me pick out a book from her old covered up bookshelf—it’s how I got into the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew. I’d take my chosen book with me and we’d get into the farm’s pick-up truck, loaded down with produce to sell at the auction. The drive always seemed to take a long time, but I’d alternate between reading and talking. I learned more about my family and heritage on these trips than at any other one point, and loved hearing Mom-Mom tell me about life. Learning about the market and auction was an experience in itself, and I remember feeling both pride and embarrassment as Mom-Mom would proudly introduce me to everyone as her granddaughter. It wasn’t a title I was used to be introduced as, and it made me feel special and loved.

I remember biking up and down Mom-Mom’s drive way and then going on bike rides with her down the lane and back. I remember trying on my Mom’s old dresses and clothes that Mom-Mom kept. Hearing stories of Mom’s dates and college life and imaging myself quite grown up in the dresses was a favorite activity. I remember coloring at Mom-Mom’s table and the drawing immediately going up on her fridge, proudly displayed for any and all to see. She didn’t just hang it up, though—she asked about it. Every detail, every piece of my drawing was important to her.
I remember hearing all about the Brittons' kids and meeting them at different points throughout the years. I remember alternately feeling jealous that THEY were the Brittons' kids and excited to meet these people who obviously meant so much to Grandma and Grandpa B. I remember how easily they fit into our Christmas routines of movies, popcorn, and fudge, and how easy it was to see the bond shared between them.

I remember how devastated I was when the Brittons retired and left Slovakia to move to some state called Tennessee. I remember how, when I moved to the same state several years later by myself, they drove an hour to Dayton to see me, take me out for breakfast, meet and gill Andrew, and give us fudge. I remember them coming to our wedding, and even their unexpected gift of a beautiful wood and metal grille set.

I remember Mom-Mom’s letters, phone calls, and packages as I moved to the states for college. My first year I was so homesick for family and familiar culture, and Mom-Mom wrote or called often, checking up with me and asking after what things I might need. She sent me several boxes throughout the course of the year, packing such necessities as shampoo right on down to luxuries like Kraft macaroni and cheese. She even found out I had discovered jerky and send me some Jack Link’s teriyaki jerky nuggets. Mmmmm! I remember how concerned she was when I got pregnant with Hadassah and was so sick. Hearing her tell me about getting pregnant with Mom immediately after their wedding and how sick she was was a bonding experience I never expected to share with my grandmother, and yet was special in its own right. She was always happy to see photos, and often I’d print out photos just to take them to New Jersey and show her my life.

I remember sitting at the Brittons’ table for hours, just talking and listen. I remember Bible Study in their apartment a few times when ours wasn’t available. I remember going to church with them, listening to Grandma B tell stories about her childhood and Norway, and singing in our van all together on Sunday mornings. I remember Grandma B joking about how she went from one country name to another when she got married—Haaland (Holland) to Britton (Britain). I still have a very old green suitcase that was hers once upon a time. She gave it to me when she left Slovakia, and to this day I keep my knitting stored in it.

I wasn’t able to be there for Grandma B’s passing, but I did get to see Mom-Mom Craver one last time. We made a quick 24-hr jaunt up to New Jersey and back when she moved to hospice care from the hospital, and I am beyond thankful we were able to get there in time. Hadassah had met her great-grandmother several times, but when we brought Meredith up before, Mom-Mom was in the hospital and children were unable to enter. This time, however, with Mom-Mom settled in her hospital bed in her so-familiar living room, Meredith met this woman I have loved my entire life. She was fascinated, reaching down to pat Mom-Mom’s face gently. I had to intervene when Meredith tried to hug and kiss her, though, as for Meredith, that entails a gentle (or not so gentle) head bump. Saying goodbye before we left was one of the hardest things I’ve done, and hearing Mom-Mom rasp out, “I love you” as we left rent my heart. She died not even twenty-four hours later.
I don't feel quite ready to move on from mourning. The Bible talks about a time to mourn and a time to rejoice. I celebrate their lives, but for now, grief over what will never be a longing for what was overshadows the rejoicing. Yet in that grief, I know both women were believers and I can hold fast to seeing them again. 

I remember how both women made me feel loved, cherished, and belonging. Both took the time to spend time with just me, to do things I liked and to listen to my heart. Both women invested in my life in ways I am still realizing, teaching me little lessons along the way and loving me no matter what. I’ve never lost someone close to me before, and losing two grandmothers in such a short amount of time has rocked my world. It’s reminded me again of how little time we have, but what a difference we can make in that time. Even today, as I sat in Grandma B’s memorial service, it struck me how, as much as she “did” a lot for our mission, our church, and the families around her, it wasn’t all her “doing” that makes her so sorely missed. It was her loving. The way she took time and gave it. The way she poured her heart into those around her, not just giving acts of service but truly giving of herself. Mom-Mom as well saw the “small” things she could do that would make a big difference. Things that, to an adult, might not be a big deal, but to a small child and teenager can make all the difference.
At the services for both grandmothers, I was struck by the unity and love present in those left behind. The bond created by those of us who loved each woman is unique, and shows how even in death, they make a difference--drawing together those who shared a love for them, those who were influenced by their lives. The time with my cousins last week was special and beautiful and left me with a renewed sense of wanting to keep in touch and not forget. The time today was cathartic in looking around and seeing so many people who shared my love for a woman who may or may not have been related to all of us, but changed our lives for the better. It also served as a reminder of how very, very important family is-- both blood family and heart family. Growing up between countries and cultures, roots are something I've had little of. Mom-Mom Craver was there throughout all of our furloughs, loving us and teaching us about who we are as Hills and Cravers and where we come from. Grandma B wasn't related to me by blood and didn't know me before I was nine, but she took me in nonetheless and loved me like her own, giving me roots in love and belonging that I desperately needed.
Both women left behind examples I want to emulate—the importance of giving of yourself and loving fully. The difference one adult can make in the life of a child not their own. My life is far richer because of these two women who never met, but influenced me in different and similar ways to be a better woman of God and lover of people. I hope that because of them, I am able to make others’ lives richer.