Editorial
Depth, Light
On a day of smelly laundry mountains, a day when I felt mother-grumpy, my grandma’s letter arrived. She had typed it out and sent copies to all her young-mother granddaughters. I opened it hoping, in a weepy emotional way, for a tender mercy, something to ease my fatigue. The letter did not disappoint. My grandma wrote, “I just wanted to write and express my love to you wonderful grandchildren who are accepting the great responsibility of being parents and taking it seriously. It is a marvelous thing for me to see you sweet, wonderful mothers staying home, nurturing, teaching, and guiding your children and bringing them up in the gospel of Jesus Christ.”
They were exactly the words I needed to read, and they gave me strength. I did not feel sweet or wonderful, but I was glad my grandma saw me that way. She had raised eight kids without disposable diapers or DVD players. I knew that it would have been easy for her to judge me, to be critical of the ease and comfort I enjoy now. But instead, her letter increased my capacity to be the kind of mother she thought I was.
Grandma recently suffered a stroke, one that left her mind intact but her tongue and right side damaged. My daughter and I visited her one afternoon in the care center. She lay in bed, her white hair flat against her head. Cards from her grandkids decorated the walls—my daughter’s wobbly family portrait, my niece’s joyful watercolor. Her body looked thin under the covers. She had told my aunts that she was ready to go, ready to be with my grandpa again. She wished the stroke had released her, but instead it left her alive. Alive, but weak.
It was hard for me to converse with her. Grandma knew what she wanted to say, but it came out garbled, frustrating us both. My four-year-old daughter, scared of the withered people and the wheelchairs, withdrew into herself, refusing to give hugs or kisses to this very different-looking great-grandma. In lieu of chitchat I read my grandma an Ensign article. My daughter sat on my lap, but halfway through the article her fidgets turned borderline tantrum, and it was time to go.
“Can I pray with you, Grandma?” I asked. She nodded. I prayed for her every night. But I wanted to pray here, too, in spite of the hum from her roommate’s television on the other side of the curtain, and the nurses walking past her open door. I wanted my grandma to hear my words. So I went ahead, even though I felt a little self-conscious. I prayed that Grandma would be strengthened, that she would feel my love and the love of my cousins. There was a spirit about the prayer, and when I finished, I saw her tears, and found myself crying. I realized that she needed my prayer, as I had needed her letter. We needed each other.
Reading “Roots and Branches,” I was reminded that we are here on earth in families to strengthen each other. We gain depth from our roots, light from our branches. We bind ourselves in eternal families in obedience to divine law. As we nourish our families, we receive strength from one another.
In this issue, one essayist explores the way her physical and spiritual resemblance to an older sister has blessed her life; another ponders the power and meaning behind a grandmother’s surname. Poets also speak of familial strength: spirits watching beyond the veil, giving us safe passage; a mother muses over growth she has experienced since her son’s birth. These writers discover power not just in earthly families, but also as children of God, as part of the divine family.
After reading this issue of Segullah, I’ve wondered why it is so hard to gain and give strength to our families. Perhaps because things of lasting value require work, the constant cultivation of connections across generations. Not all relationships bear the fruit we hope for. But this will not prevent us from continuing to labor on behalf of our loved ones. As sisters, daughters, grandmothers, and mothers, there is satisfaction, joy, and strength in the careful tending of our roots and branches.
Emily is an assistant editor of Segullah.
