"It's in our blood"

When I was a little girl – probably 6 or 7, I spent a lot of time with my grandparents.  They were both terrific people in their own way, although my grandfather was not a Christian.  But my grandmother, my mother’s mother, was a Free Methodist and the one of the two most amazing women I’ve ever known (my mother is the other one). 

I learned many things from gram:  how to bake bread, how to quilt, how to be a self-sufficient woman, how to play the piano, how to sew, how to sit still in church, how to win at Scrabble, and loyalty of family…but the most important lesson I learned from her was the power of service.

I suffered from depression sometimes as a child.  My grandmother called it “the blues”.  I’d lay awake at night at her house sometimes, listening to the myriad of clocks they had in their house and I can remember, like yesterday, hearing the chimes ding dong as hours ticked away, and I tossed and turned. Finally I'd paddle into her room and wake her up.  My grandmother would say, “You have the blues…and you know what we do when we have the blues, don’t you?” 

I knew then we were always in for an adventure if I could wait until morning.

We would get in her little orange Fiat and go on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride – for with grandma, stop lights were optional.  We’d screech into to the neighborhood Value Village, and start scouting the toy department for old dolls that, as grandma said, “had potential.” 

My grandmother was all about potential. 

We picked up some real prizes – ragged, dirty dolls, perhaps with holes poked in them, and teeth colored by crayons.  We’d finally stick the best in our cart.  Then we would scout the clothing aisles for something that had a “pretty pattern” in it – I can hear her saying it now – “Oh that has a pretty pattern, don’t you think?” 

When we were satisfied we’d gotten the cream of the crop, we’d check out and return to her house where our real jobs would start.

My job was to fill up the kitchen sink with soap and water and bathe those dolls down.  I’d use a little Comet and some flesh colored wood putty grandpa would provide, if needed.  I’d scrub those dolls while listening to my grandma’s sewing machine whirling away in the basement, then pat them dry, inspect my work, and 9 times out of 10, we had a winner.  I would set the doll’s hair, combing it with my grandpa’s comb that he'd dip in Brill Cream – “a little dab would do ya’” and make pin curls with hair pins.

While the dolls dried, I’d join grandma at the sewing machine, following her instructions precisely.  She’d have me look for buttons she’d cut off discarded shirts, cut up an old lace tablecloth to make a bonnet, perhaps pin up a hem.  I watched her many, many times transform an old shirt into a pinafore, sundress or gown.  And we always made pajamas out of flannel. 

We’d dress the dolls, set them out and call grandpa in to admire them.  Then off we’d go to the children’s hospital.  I will never, ever, ever forget the excitement of knowing what was ahead. 

We’d sing all the way there...me with clinched teeth for I’d grip the hand rails as my grandma skidded around corners, swung around other cars, and parked… wherever she wanted, usually in a doctor’s parking spot, and off we’d march, hand in hand into that hospital.  She’d walk right past the nursing station, like she belonged there and you know, I never once remember anybody stopping us. 

She had that “look” that said, “I have a right to be here.”

We’d walk down the halls, peeking in rooms, until we’d see a little girl alone.  I don’t remember what  criteria grandma used or how she’d sniff out those children who needed cheering the most, but she said that Jesus showed her which children. 

Here’s what I remember…going into the room, she always had me go in first, and greeting the little girl and telling her that we had a present for her from God.  We’d pull out this pristine, beautifully dressed, perfectly coiffed doll (or at least that’s how I saw it) that we named before we got there.  We’d tell the little girl that she was not alone and this doll was her friend, made especially for her. 

I invariably blubbered.

Oh the euphoria!  The joy, the deep down itch that got scratched in me.  That feeling of service – that feeling of making a difference, the feeling that you have made someone’s way easier, given them hope. She instilled in me this appetite that never is totally sated.  I always want more. 

The truth is this:  you cannot buy that feeling. 

She showed me the joy that comes from service…creative service.  Service that requires effort.

On the way home, we’d recount everything that was said, every expression, every tear… we’d laugh and laugh…then she’d say, “You don’t have the blues anymore do you ? “  I’d say, of course, “No – but I don’t know why.”  She’d say, “It’s because it’s impossible to have the blues and be of service to others at the same time. “ 

“Why?” I’d ask.

“Because we have Jesus in our hearts – the things that make Him happy make us happy.  It’s in our blood.”

I became reacquainted with this principle in my adulthood as I battled demons of depression, addiction, broken marriage, and the heartaches of life.  When I gave my life to God again (at 41) and got sober, I heard it again and again in  AA – service to our fellows will cheer us when all else fails us.  When I heard that, the stories of my grandmother and lessons I learned came flooding back to me.  True contentment, true happiness comes from serving others. 

Why?  Because it’s in our blood.

You know, I don't think anyone would do this kind of thing today.  Give a little child a used doll in a children's hospital?  No way.  I don't know why it was wonderful then and wouldn't be now - I guess it was different times and abundance wasn't what it is today.  But regardless, I love this gift of service we get from God.  I love that it's not a one time gift, but he allows us to open again and again.  I love the deep peace and satisfaction we get to taste, touch and feel as we see lives changed…sometimes slightly and sometimes dramatically, as a result of our service.  

My pastor, Michael, said a couple Sundays ago, "it’s the power of the towel." (Referencing Jesus washing the disciples' feet)

I think of the many things we try to give our children:  stable homes, well rounded educations, opportunities to travel the world, sports, music lessons…the list could go on and on.  But I am persuaded that one of the top values/skills/perks we can give our kids is modeling the power there is in service.