Gran’s House

We have managed to escape the confines of our home during all this chaos of masks and hand sanitizers and are spending two weeks in our family farmhouse. The house that my dad was raised in.

It is amazing how a house with cracks and squeaky floorboards and an idiosyncratic water supply can be so much more than that. In a rare moment I am sitting in the sun on the verandah by myself while Eva naps and Gray has some time with his Gran up in my own childhood home up the road. From my vantage I am looking across to the spot on the verandah where my Granny used to serve tea at 10 o’clock every morning. And without fail that tea would be accompanied by home made bread tomato sandwiches and scones with homemade strawberry jam. My Gran would top and tail fresh green beans on this verandah in the sun and always had a warm welcome lap for rouge grandchildren who came ambling into her yard.

I only ever felt love in this home.
Because I only ever felt love from my Granny.

Heartbreakingly for us we lost my Gran when I was about eight. It is both the worst and the best time to lose a grandparent. For me my grandmother has remained perfect, unblemished by my adult gaze. Like many childhood memories the rose tint with which I view her will never be marred. She was my champion in all things. Even when her cancer left her incapacitated she found the energy to sew a final dolls dress, to let me gently play with shells on the floor next to her death bed, to be present with me. For a person who is as demanding a spirit as me I was always enough for her.

This morning Gray is doing activities with his Granny. And he is having a snack with her in the treehouse. And he is being unconditionally loved.

When I think about God I see His love for us as more like that of a Grandparent. It delights always, forgives always, hopes always. And just like a grandparent it longs always to stay connected - no matter the distance and separation the devotion is a constant. A parent’s  job is relentless, imperfect and very human. Grandparents are the heavenly ones.

I remember writing a letter to the late legend Reza De Wet when she was dying. In it I expressed the blessing it can be to only ever know a grandparent through the eyes of a young child. She was agonizing over having to part from her granddaughter at such a young age. I told her that she was leaving space for a legacy. One which allowed for magic and unconditional love and Heaven to take root.

And now as I walk through this creaky old house and gently run my fingers over the ancient light switches, switches that I know my granny would have fingered thousands of times, and as I hear the hysterical laughter of my children as they sprint down the cavernous passage just as I did as a child I can feel the space of legacy that she has left for me.

And her love for me entwines with the love of God because it is in this home that I first felt a grandparent’s love. In this home I first found Heaven.