Many Mountains
Why so stinking many Mountains?
“I feel like I am in a big bowl, caught, I can hardly breathe, the mountains are closing me in. I want to go home, to the flat prairie land where I can see for miles.”
I could hear my grandmother’s voice speaking these words, even though the story was told with my mother’s voice and from her point of view. It was from this vantage that my memories found their source. Grandma’s words took me back to 1964, my mother needed extended care for me, a two year old, while she underwent major surgery, not the first and certainly not the last of many medical procedures my mother suffered.
It was in this context that my grandmother came to spend several week at our home in Chewelah, Washington. The land of the bowl edge of mountains. Gma was 60 or 61 years old at the time. She was never sure when she was born, as the youngest of 13 children and one who was kicked out of her own home at the age of 7 by her step-mother, records of her birth didn’t seem to be important either.
Grandma Judith’s life was a sad tale, not far different to the story of Cinderella, Grandpa Henry acting his part as the Prince that freed her from bondage at the age of 16 when he was 21 years old. It was the 1920’s so the child labor laws were not in effect, but in essence Grandma Judith had worked for her keep from age 7 to age 16, then as a young bride began establishing her own home on the homestead farm north of Okeene, Oklahoma.
Her tale before that was ever so sad, her mother died in childbirth, her father was working the farm, and Judith was watched over by her brothers, until Great-Grandfather Jacob sent for a mail order bride and when she arrived she had her own children in tow, as I said, Cinderella. After a few months Gma Judith was sent packing of to live with one brother and family and then another brother. Never really finding a home, Gma, worked hard and was a fighter, sassy, even to her 96th year, when she left this earth.
So into my two year old life my sassy grandma arrived. It was not long after her time with our family that the name “bullet butt” was tagged to my name of Stacey. It was and is fitting to the type of personality traits that I possess. I love running, love speed, being fast, accomplishing much and doing my own thing – alone. “Bullet” from a rifle, not buck shot from a shot gun. Grandma Judith was up for the task, I kicked her in the face, bent her glasses and left a lasting scar on her nose, for her efforts. Don’t judge me too harshly I was only two at the time, Gma never let me live down the scar on her nose, heehee. I guess I left a lasting mark, not on purpose.
So what part of the story do I tell first? My mother’s surgery, grandma’s farm life which merges with my mother’s younger years then fades into my parent’s meeting? Shall I focus on my story from age 2 or merge the three into one tale interweaving the threads of story within one tale? I think I will begin chronologically and with Judith.
Many of the stories that my Gma told me were thirty years ago, when as a college student I spent a considerable time in her home. She and I ate, watched TV and shared stories together. It is from this long ago memory that I will re-tell her version of her story. I will begin when she was seven she was sent to live with her older brother, whose wife resented the imposition and therefore made life miserable for Gma. Not long afterwards she was sent to live with another brother, in this home Gma found some solace, while she was given many chores to accomplish resulting in her education being cut short at third grade, never the less, grandma learned how to run a household well.
She had her own money, independence and a temper to ‘beat the band’ these qualities were attractive to men that needed strong women to work side by side on the farms, hard labor in the early 1900’s. The best part: grandma could cook! She was a terrific cook up until she moved from her home in her late 80’s, no one – no one could make homemade noodles, fried chicken (from a live chicken, break the neck, feather, cut and fry in bacon grease) and several dishes passed down to her from her German family members.
The great mountain of how will grandma live as a seven year old, alone, not really loved or cared for, yet despite all odds grandma thrived in the midst of adversity. Until one evening when she was standing on the corner of main and the highway, outside the bank where her brother worked, Gpa Henry asked her to join him on a date. She accepted and a few months later they were married. Even then she and her Prince had sorrow the very first year of marriage with the cradle death of their first son.
Even as a woman in her 80’s she grieved this loss, probably SIDS, I remember talking with her at length about where her child would be and if she would ever meet him again. This grief revealed the depth of my grandmother’s feelings towards her children, though in life she kept those feelings close inside her, fearing they would or could be used against her. No doubt a coping habit from living with those that did not truly love her unconditionally. Suffering takes many forms. Emotional suffering marked my grandmother’s life, while her body was strong and healthy, there are always those places in us where weakness dwells.
This weakness, the need to hide her true feelings and a tendency not to trust those close to her, plagued gma’s relationship with gpa Henry and her children. I was so very fortunate to see a side of gma Judith that no one saw, her vulnerability. We wrote back and forth when I was in school, then I would also visit as I mentioned before. I am not totally sure why she opened up and shared her heart with me, unconditional love has a way to build trust, and encouragement and valuing also heal old wounds.
So many wounds remained unhealed with Gma Judith, these were very old wounds that a loving God was slowly healing. At the writing of this story I was unaware of the special moments that the two of us shared and I am unsure of the reasons. But this I do know, my mother endured cruelties at the hands of my gma and chose to love and forgive in return. Love is powerful, prayer changes things, situations, attitudes, and can heal wounds deeper and more hopeless that any one person could imagine. God is love.
So? Why so stinking many mountains? Mountains define us, mountains mold us, mountains create depth of character, mountains used in the hands of a loving God help create in us the very qualities and character traits that we need for life here on earth. We are eternal beings, Revelations the end book found in the Bible, refers to a new heaven and a new earth where we will dwell as the eternal beings we are – spirit, new bodies. I could use a new body about now, but I digress. The problem is, if Jesus is not a part of your life a new heaven and a new earth is not in your future.
These were the types of conversations I had with Grandma Judith, tough no nonsense talks about life after death. Only two options, heaven or hell. This concerned Gma, she wanted to know where her first child would be. A heart grieved, set free by the truth that if her relationship with Jesus was secure, she would most definitely meet up with her child. Praise the Lord in freedom and in forgiveness.
Mountains laid low and valleys made straight, the things that cause us pain, suffering and doubt, the mountains and challenges in our life will all remain firmly behind us. Heaven: no tears, no pain.
Stacey Britton October 31, 2016
