Sometimes my simple childhood, compared to the complexities of children’s lives today, rattles around my head like a bad jingle. My first memories bring back trips from southeast Iowa to central Arkansas, from my house to grandma’s. Vacation always began on Sunday night. Dad would take the baby bed mattress and tuck it tightly into the back seat of our family car, then my brother and I would snuggle in for the long drive down US 67. Millions of stars twinkled through the massive rear window and the fog lights, searching for the river bank, as we followed the Mighty Mississip’, would mark the miles traveled. I can still hear the cadence of the pavement’s expansion joints lulling me to sleep. We would arrive in my grandparent’s drive early Monday morning and peace would descend on us all.
Reverends Loy D. and Blanche Jones lived simply. They served the Lord and loved on those in their community. Summertime grew gardens that fed beyond grandmother’s table and wintertime brought crowded rooms and the laughter of grown siblings, old friends and all their rowdy children.
Then, there were the trains and clocks. In the late 1960 and early 70’s, railroad traffic passed through Beebe, Arkansas every ten minutes, twenty-four hours a day. And, Grandad had several clocks with their own distinctive ticks and tocks. He meticulously wound and set them so as one quit chiming the next began. All throughout the night, wedged between too many cousins, life noisily pulsed. I felt peace.
Years went by and my grandparents retired to live near my parents. Cancer took PaPa’s life three weeks after I gave birth to my oldest child. My dad spent many hours by his father’s bedside that year, and was with him, praying for comfort, when Loy Jones reached toward Heaven and entered into the presence of his Savior. It was the 26th of December, 1988 and we were crushed. How do you move forward without your earthly reflection of God’s radiance?
Standing in my parent’s living room minutes before the memorial service, I sobbed and told dad I never considered that Granddad would die. I just thought as long as I existed, he would too. Dad wrapped his arms around me and confessed he felt the same. Collectively we shared our profound loss and wondered how we would continue on.
Somewhere in that embrace the peace I knew from childhood swept over me and Heaven became real. It was now Granddad’s residence and it warmed me as completely as sunshine on a cloudless day. My life was forever changed because Heaven touched me.
My grandparents lived with an absence of chaos. I know the sins and crisis that infest today’s man, did then too. Granddad was called out into the dark night to rescue and minister those who were drowning in their secret transgressions, but he took peace and hope, the same I found when I laid my head on a pillow that smelled of lilac, or romped through the leaves he had recently raked.
Simple or complex, the world longs for peace, but it can’t be found in a bank account, political party, perfect life plan, scholarly pursuit or any other man made means. It came in a cattle stall, homeless and helpless, and with great and unconditional love, it changed the world.
My people will live in peaceful dwelling places, in secure homes, in undisturbed places of rest. Isaiah 32:18
I wish you Peace this Blessed Season,
Gretchen
