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My small eight-year-old hands slid easily on the marble steps that fronted my mom’s childhood home, as I scooped jacks between tosses and bounces of my little red ball.
“One-sies, two-sies….” It was Sunday: Grandmom-visiting day in South Philadelphia, visiting my mother’s family of ten.
The boring hour-long ride there was redeemed for my brother, sister, and me by Dad’s “heavy foot”; he passed all the cars on the road, while we children cheered him on and Mom prayed her beads. The next reward was an Italian feast whose aroma would greet us at the front door.
Time passed, and grandparents and uncles died or moved away. I grew up, married, and introduced my own children to the Sunday tradition of visiting “the girls”— Mom’s affectionate term for the three single aunts and a widow who continued to live in the family home and serve us sumptious meals. These four women lived together there for over thirty-eight years. Finally, only one was left—the “girl” who had always been the frail worrier, Aunt Isabel.
Cheerful Giving. One picture-perfect Saturday in spring, I was mentally preparing myself for a weekend visit with Aunt Isabel. Just a few days earlier, we had attended the funeral of her youngest sister; her other two housemates had died within the past three years. At the age of ninety, Isabel was alone for the first time in her life. I savored the last swallow of morning coffee as I read Psalm 94, verses 18 and 19: “When I thought, ‘My foot is slipping,’ your steadfast love, O Lord, held me up. When the cares of my heart are many, your consolations cheer my soul.”
“The cares of my heart are many” summed up how I felt. I doubted this could be a day when consolations would “cheer my soul.” I longed to linger in prayer, to remain still and quiet, but knew the Lord wanted me to put the Bible down and get on the road. I was resisting and felt guilty about it.
I know she needs me, I thought, pitching a few things into an overnight bag. Isabel was determined to stay in her home, and this could only work if my two retired cousins and I helped her out. But I had a long to-do list of my own. How can I handle working five days a week and spending weekends with Aunt Isabel? I whined. Lord, I want to serve you. But this?
I was still wrestling in prayer as I drove to South Philly, telling God how selfish and crummy I felt, especially considering what Aunt Isabel had been through. Though I’ve inherited my dad’s “heavy foot,” my driving was unhurried that day.
The visit got off to a bad start. Isabel’s anxiety was running high, and the moment I arrived, she began to scold. “Where have you been? How come you’re late? I was afraid you were in an accident.” I made a lame excuse about traffic delays and told her she had to stop worrying so much.
“My Foot Is Slipping.” We went out for lunch, which cheered us both. It was good to get away from the neighborhood, which was not as nice as it used to be. When we returned, I asked Aunt Isabel how I could help.
“Would you vacuum?” she said. “I can’t push it.”
“Okay,” I said, glad of the chance for mindless busywork. I plugged the antiquated Hoover’s cord into the nearest socket.
“Not there,” she barked. “We never plug it in there. And don’t start vacuuming there; we always start over here.”
In a huff, I turned off the vacuum and said, a little too loudly, “I’ve kept house for over thirty years. I know how to vacuum. I’m taking a walk!”
“A walk? Now? Why? Where?”
“I need to take a walk, Aunt Isabel. I won’t be long. Don’t worry.”
Eyes stinging with tears, I headed down the block to her parish church, the church where my parents were married and where I was baptized. Slipping into a back pew, I realized I was near the ninth station of the cross: “Jesus falls for the third time.”
I was feeling the weight of my cross, too. The words of my morning psalm described it well: “My foot is slipping.” In my longing for comfort, I touched the partially worn foot of Jesus, as have many generations before me. Help me, Lord. I keep falling and making things worse. I need your love for Aunt Isabel and a willingness to be here to help her.
I’m not sure how long I knelt there. I knew I had to let go of my stubbornness to make room for the Lord to work, and finally I made the decision to try. Gradually, a peace came over me. My step was lighter as I walked back to the house, where I was greeted by a grateful and relieved Aunt Isabel. I apologized and so did she.
During the rest of the weekend, I could sense a difference in myself and in her. And the next morning, when I returned to Psalm 94, I was overwhelmed to realize that the Lord had indeed held me up, consoled me, and lessened my cares.
Appreciating Aunt Isabel. My trips to the city changed. By God’s grace, I was able to go with acceptance in my heart and a deeper love for my aunt. Whenever we had to talk through some difficulties, I was able to do it lovingly, and she was open to listening.
It helped that a parish nurse assessed Isabel’s situation and determined that she did not have to have someone around every waking moment of every day. From that time on, I spent Sundays with her and also brought her to my home for holidays and for a weekend visit every month. She came to call my parish her second parish, and my family her second family.
Aunt Isabel especially enjoyed contact with my children and grandchildren during these visits. One small granddaughter would always run to her, calling “Isabelly” and giving her the largest hug this frail woman could handle. How Aunt Isabel’s face would light up! I told her she had lived the longest so we could all get to know her best. Since my mom had passed away by then, Isabel became my children’s new grandmom. She liked that.
Aunt Isabel died at ninety-seven, and I miss her. I am so grateful for the way God worked in our relationship and for all he taught me through our times together.
Today, the home that was in my mother’s family for eighty-five years has been sold. I hope another little girl is playing jacks on the smooth marble steps. I hope the family living there grows in understanding of our Lord and his steadfast love, just the way Aunt Isabel and I did.
Dianne Spotts lives in Hatfield, Pennsylvania. She has four children and ten grandchildren.