by Laura L. Bradford
“Grandma’s weird,” I muttered as I sat alone on our lawn, mindlessly plucking blades of grass. As a seven-year-old, I couldn’t understand why Grandma behaved so differently from other adults, particularly my mother.
For one, whenever Grandma had an opportunity to sit down, she read a book called the Bible. Then she’d close her eyes and bow her head. I always assumed she’d fallen asleep.
In my youthful opinion, Grandma was very old. We’d just celebrated her seventy-fourth birthday. Three years earlier, she came to take care of my sister, brother, and me after our father died in a devastating car accident. It took me a while to get used to having a tiny, bent-backed lady caring for us while Mom worked long hours to support the family.
Grandma worked extremely hard doing the cooking, housecleaning, laundry, and many more chores. But she loved us so much, she’d take time to dream up fun things for us to do, like playing family card games, telling us her made-up fairy tales, and helping us cut out pictures from magazines to paste on paper and create our own stories.
However, one day at lunchtime, she asked us to spend the afternoon being quiet until 3:00 p.m. She didn’t want us to do noisy things, like run around shouting and acting crazy.
I recalled a time about a year earlier when she’d done the same thing. Usually, I’d spend my days having fun, like romping in the neighboring woods, flying high on our swing, or racing my bike up and down our hill. But not on that day, not in the afternoon. My older sister loved to spend that time reading her library books. But, unlike Betty, I struggled to sit still. My body always wanted to move.
My four-year-old brother had the same problem. As he roared past me making loud noises, pretending to drive a semi-truck, I called out, “Billy, no! We’re supposed to be quiet.”
Leaping to my feet, I chased after him, saying, “Let’s go play in the sandbox. Maybe we can build something.”
My brother agreed and dashed to the sandbox ahead of me. I ended up creating a mound of dirt I called a castle, only to have Billy whack it down with a stick. But I did it again and again and again because knocking down sandcastles kept my brother somewhat quiet, which is what Grandma had asked. I knew I should be obedient, even though Grandma’s request seemed strange.
Not until my mid-twenties did I realize that Grandma set aside that time to honor Jesus’ sacrifice for our sins. When I finally grasped the fact that He bore my punishment on the cross, a deep conviction hit me and I mournfully repented.
After surrendering my life to God, I fully understood why Grandma had asked us to be quiet during those hours. She did it in memory of the hours when darkness covered the land while Jesus bore the punishment for the sins of humanity. Grandma wasn’t a weird lady but a woman of faith, determined to honor her Savior by taking time to remember the heart-wrenching price Jesus paid to save souls.
Ever since I surrendered to Jesus, just thinking about the torture He went through brings tears to my eyes. Sometimes I break down and sob, “Why, Lord? Why did You do that for me, a woman who defiantly chose to sin?”
I must admit that I don’t spend certain hours each year in quiet remembrance of Jesus’ sacrifice as Grandma did. Instead, I desire to spend every day giving earnest thanks to the Lord for the price He paid for my sins and the sins of everyone who repents and turns to Him.
Today, I’m the grandma. And I don’t care if my grandkids consider me weird. I just pray that someday they’ll repent and join me in longing to live out this life in honor of our deeply compassionate Savior.
