Everybody’s had dreams that almost wake them up with their truth. So it’s both a word from you, but it’s also a word to you.
Frederick Buechner
I remember doing homework, but that is not entirely accurate. In most of my memories, particularly memories from long ago, I do not actually remember anything as it happened. I simply know that it happened. There is not a tactile or felt sense I can recollect or describe. In fact, most of what I remember exists as a scrapbook or photo album in my mind. Snapshots, various scenes, and I am in them but not of them – outside myself, watching my life. I mention this reluctantly because this is also how I understand the body experiences trauma; we somehow float out of our bodies and hover, disassociated with the moment itself. So I’ll just leave that there.
I remember doing homework at my grandparents’ house. Not the taste and texture of orange juice, which I liked to drink, or my favorite after school melted cheese tortilla roll-ups, which I microwaved myself once I was tall enough, or even where I sat at their kitchen table to do my assignments. But I remember being there because when I think of home and safety this is what floats up within me, a knowing that lingers on the heart and soul.
My grandfather picked my sister and me up from school, and we stayed at their house until our mother got off work. In the time between, I did my homework, which was common back then, as early as elementary school, in multiple subjects. And I loved homework, and I loved doing it at my grandparents’ because in my grandfather’s unique way everything I did was amazing and special, including me being clumsy and loudly curious. What I realize now is that my grandfather had an immense gift of presence, and I was on the receiving end. Doing homework at his house was like a playground. I was never afraid but supported with every move; somehow not being afraid of falling helped me learn, apply, and push. And I was happy showing him my work was done. When he passed away my junior year in high school, the safe haven and encouragement suddenly disappeared, and my classwork startled me because for the first time I questioned myself. Who will pick me up if I fall?
The night before my grandfather passed, I was baptized. Again, not a memory so much as a knowing: God removed my grandfather’s loving presence and gave me the Spirit of truth. I was very slow to understand and accept the gift.
