Dear Friends and Family,
1976 was a memorable year for me. Yes, it was the bicentennial of the United States but it was the year that I, at the tender age of eight, learned about God’s love and blessings to the needy.
In November of 1976, I was slightly awoken by the unusual sound of my Grandma talking to my Mama in the kitchen. My Grandma did not live with us and it was the middle of the night. I called out to inquire about the commotion. My heart leaped into my throat as I heard my mother crying and saying, “I can’t tell her, I can’t tell her. I will upset her.” My Grandma told her to leave with my Grandpa (who I still affectionately refer to as Poppy Frank). My Mama left and I reached down from my bunk bed to shake, Russ, my little brother awake. Whatever this was, I was not about to endure it alone.
Grandma entered the room and in her sweet way, kissed me and assured me everything was okay. Then she spent the next few minutes explaining that there had been an accident. My Daddy had either broken both legs and an arm or both arms and a leg. This was not unusual news for me. My Daddy was labeled “accident prone” by all who knew him and he took great pride in living up to the label. But this was different. Grandma begin to cry and stroke my hair. I knew there was more information than what I was privy to but at eight. I realized, however, your crying Grandma is not the person to badger for such information. I obeyed her request and I went back to sleep.
When I awoke the next day, Grandma was still there and my Mama was not. Given that my Mama never spent a night away from home, this was getting more bizarre and upsetting. Russ was starting to become bothered by Grandma’s continued crying so I sucked it up and put on the brave older sister face. We dressed for school and Grandma gave us the report that Daddy would be in the hospital for a while. Hospital? There had never been hospital time for him before. It was getting serious now. The phone was ringing constantly and we were given the option of staying home or going to school. I, preferring Grandma to school, gave my vote for home but was quickly squelched by a family member intruding to say the regular schedule should be maintained. Off to school we went.
I was met at school by a posse of friends with wide eyes and questions. One little boy told me that he was very sorry that my Daddy had been killed in an automobile accident. That was too much. I burst into inconsolable sobbing. The teacher was told by another child what had happened. She scooped me up in her arms and explained that my Daddy was not dead but there was a bad car accident and he was in the hospital. She went into great detail about how she would bring me to her house to eat spaghetti and play with numerous toys that we had never been able to afford. I consented to this plan and she called someone in my family to retrieve me from the onslaught of questions by my classmates.
The weeks that followed were confusing and difficult. The first week, we were told that Daddy was in a comma and we could not visit. I was infuriated by this and insisted that someone could at least roll him down to the lobby so I could tell him that he was okay.
I bonded with the bubble gum machine in the hospital lobby. I am sure I spent every nickel in the pockets of all who visited on bubble gum from the lobby machines. I had never been allowed to consume so much candy before but I wasn’t about to say no to those that offered.
I watched people from the church pour into the hospital. My Mama explained that the doctors had said Daddy would be in Intensive Care a long time…maybe months. Someone else explained that people were coming from the church for a prayer chain. I thought they were linking themselves together around my father (and some people did come and hold hands around him) but I learned that this terminology meant otherwise. I remember being in constant dialogue to God that somebody let me see him.
In a matter of days after the accident, my Daddy awoke from his slumber to announce that he was fine. All medical staff members were shocked at the miracle. My Mama cried with tears of joy as he was moved into a regular room. She told me that I would be able to visit him and that was enough to send me into fits of wild, exuberant hysteria.
Mama tried to prepare me for his appearance. All of her words did nothing, though. He looked plain dumb. Every limb was in a cast and he had to sit in a wheelchair that was a rocking chair type which made no sence because it didn’t rock. I managed to squeeze in between all the plaster and hug him. He wept softly. I remember crying when I had to leave the room. It was so long since I had seen him and now I was being dragged away. I was promised another visit soon.
My Mama became more confident in his recovery and told me the truth. He had been in a horrible car accident and broken both legs, shattered an arm (it was saved by the use of metal pins), lost his knee cap, broken every rib (or so they thought), his collar bone, and a variety of other bones that I didn’t know existed. But, worst of all, his head had gone through the windshield causing swelling of the brain. I quizzed her about every detail and made her crazy but she handled it beautifully.
During the second week of December, he was still in the hospital. Arrangements were made for my brother and I to watch the Christmas parade from his hospital window. I was elated at this arrangement and it seemed as good as the possibility of catching candy during the parade. Several people in the room asked me about the arrival of Santa Claus and my wishes for Christmas. I very matter of factly stated what I wanted for Christmas was my Daddy to come home. At hearing my request, everyone cried at the same time. My thought was that grown-ups are entirely too emotional (God really has a sense of humor there).
Three days before Christmas, God answered my prayer and Daddy came home. An out pouring of people visited our home bringing food, clothing, candy, and envelopes that went unnoticed by me. I remember one dear lady, Mrs. Sue Phillips, who brought in a grocery bag filled with food and I could see two plastic candy canes filled with chocolate. My eyes were fixated on those candy canes. We were rarely given such treats. After she left, I asked my Mama why everyone was being so nice. My Mama then had the difficult task of telling me that we were a needy family since my father’s accident. I was astonished at the news. People continued to come and shower us with kindness and love.
I remember the joy of that Christmas with much warmth each year. Because of the generosity of others, that was the most wonderful Christmas that I experienced as a child (mostly because those were the best presents that I received) but much to do with understanding that God uses others to help those in need.
I consider it an honor and a privilege that I have been given the opportunity to give back a portion of what has been given to me. Each time I take Crizantina’s family food, I remember that I, too, was once part of a needy family. Praise the name of Jesus that I am able to be used to bless others as He has blessed me.
I love you, Daddy and Mama, for continuing to teach me and show me how to assist others in need. You have both been solid role models in this area. I praise God that I have such special people to spend Christmas with each year.
If you haven’t designated a family in need to assist this Christmas, please ask around. You’ll be very surprised to find who is a needy family.
Basking in the Son,
Michelle
