Happy Tears

Twelve-year-old Sturgill Blanchard bounded down the attic steps, a huge dusty book cradled in his arms. "Grandma," he shouted. "Look what I found!"
His grandmother, who was sitting at the dining room table, looked up from her magazine. Her eyes lit up in surprise. "Well I'll be," she said in a cracked voice. "Where on earth did you find that?"

"In the attic -- at the bottom of a big box of old books."

"Well, bring it here to me. Praise the Lord! I thought I had lost that years ago."

"What is it, Grandma?" Sturgill asked as he lugged the book across the dining room and plopped it on the table.

"It's my old Bible," she answered. "It's been in my family for over 120 years. My father passed it on to me when I married your grandfather Carl. But it disappeared thirteen years ago, after Carl died, and when I moved away from the old home place."

Grandma moved the Bible in front of her. She placed her gnarled, veined hands, stiff with arthritis, on the cover and slowly and deliberately wiped some of the dust away. Then she opened the Bible to the first page. The title read, "My Family."

"The birth and death dates of most of my family are recorded in here," she said. "My grandfather made some of the notations, my father, and me, too. See here?" she said pointing. "Here's what I wrote down when your mother was born: 'Sydna Anne Addington, born May 12, 1954, St. Agnes Hospital, Baltimore, Maryland'."

"Is Daddy in there, too?"

"No, honey. Just my family." Then she turned several pages and stopped at one titled "Marriages." "But here is where I wrote when your mother and father got married. See?" she said pointing. "'Sturgill Charles Blanchard and Sydna Anne Addington, married on June 24, 1985, Birmingham, Alabama'."

"Cool."

Grandma nodded sadly. "There was a time when every family had a big Bible like this in their home. They didn't put it on a bookshelf or in a cupboard or anything. They put it right out in the parlor for everyone to see. Any visitor could thumb through and find out about the family. In those days, we remembered our ancestors."

"Is my name in there?"

"I'm afraid not, honey. I lost this old Bible before you were born. But get me a pen. I'll put it in right now."

Sturgill returned a moment later with a ball-point pen in his hand. Grandma quickly found a blank space under "Births" and slowly began to write. "'Sturgill Charles Blanchard, Jr., born March 2, 1988, to Sturgill Charles Blanchard, Sr. and Sydna Anne Addington Blanchard, Knoxville, Tennessee.' There!" she said, handing the pen back to Sturgill. "A hundred years from now, your great-grandchildren will be able to read this and they will remember you."

"Family Bibles really were important when you were a girl?"

"I should say so. Of course, you could read God's word and write about the births and deaths and marriages in a family, but we also used to store important papers between the pages."

"Like what?" Sturgill asked.

"Well, like birth certificates or obituary notices cut out of the newspaper."

"Is anything like that in this Bible?"

"It's been so long I've forgotten. Let's see." Grandma began leafing through the pages one by one. Finally she came to a small card that looked almost like a party invitation -- except that it was edged in black.

"What's that?" Sturgill asked.

"Your grandfather," Grandma said. "This was the little card the funeral parlor printed up when he died."

"You were married a long time?"

"Let's see. We were married in 1940, when I was 20 years old. He died in 1982, six years before you were born. We were married 42 wonderful years." A single tear coursed down her cheek. "He was the most gentle, wonderful man you could ever meet, Sturgill. You would have loved each other. I really miss Carl and I think about him all the time. Thank God it won't be much longer till we'll be together again."

Sturgill had heard that before. In fact, his grandmother had said "it won't be much longer until we'll be together again" at least once every day since he could remember.

"What else is in the Bible, Grandma?"

"Well, let's see," she answered, turning the pages. "This is an obituary for your Aunt Edna. She died in 1936 in childbirth. And here is a lock of hair from my daddy. He died the year after Aunt Edna. Mama died a year after him."

"Isn't there anything happy in the Bible?"

"Oh, yes. All these things really are happy things, although they sometimes they make you cry. These are my memories -- happy or sad -- they are the things that make us who we are. God molds us through our experiences, you know.

Then she turned some more pages. A moment later she came upon a funny-looking object. It looked like a flower, but was all cracked and brittle. Grandma let out a little cry and her hand flew to her mouth. Sturgill said nothing. Instead he watched his grandmother's surprised expression as tears, once again, welled up in her eyes.

"You asked if there were any happy things in this Bible," she said, turning. "There are and this is one of them. This rose was from your grandfather to me on our wedding night. I was a very nervous bride. I had never been away from home before. We were both so very young."

She reached for a handkerchief, wiped her eyes and continued. "When I walked into the bedroom, I found this on my pillow -- the most beautiful red rose that I had ever seen. It was from your grandfather and he had laid it there to tell me in the most beautiful way how much he loved me. At that moment, all my fear vanished and I knew once and for all that I had married the right man.

"As I said, we were married for 42 glorious years and I wouldn't trade one second for anything."

She carefully picked the rose from the Bible. Then she turned to Sturgill. "This, Sturgill, is a symbol of my happiness. May your future wife give you half as much joy as my Carl gave me."

As Sturgill turned to leave the dining room, he looked back for a moment and saw a sight that he would never forget. His grandmother was sitting on the chair, sunlight washing through the window and haloing her snow-white hair, her old family Bible sitting on the table in front of her, the faded rose cradled lovingly in her hands, the flower glistening with happy tears.

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Ed Price spent 35 years in print and broadcast journalism. He is author of 15 books. After becoming an ordained minister he settled with his wife on a farm in the mountains of Southwest Virginia, to study God's word and to write. Ed and Patty are the parents of three girls, have one grandchild, and cater to the every whim of two spoiled cats.
© 2008 Ed Price - All rights reserved. Visit his website, The Loving Heart.

This column is used with permission.