Regret

Adolescence is a hard time of life, and it seems that everyone thinks that their adolescent experience was worse that anyone else’s. I don’t pretend to hold the prize for ‘Worst Adolescence Ever,’ but I did experience my share of sadness. Just as I was coming into my adolescent years, my life fell apart. The details aren’t important now, but everything I had known my life to be was turned on its head. I was confused and scared and very lonely. I still haven’t completely gotten over it. A large part of my raising from that time on was done by my Grandma Jean.

If it was embarrassing for other young teenagers to have their parents around, it was utterly humiliating for me to be seen with my grandmother. I hated it when my friends knew that I couldn’t come hang-out because my grandma was making me practice the piano. I didn’t like having friends over because it was my grandma’s house and had grandma furniture and grandma decorations. Church was an embarrassment every week. Grandma used to be a soloist and sang in Sacrament Meeting as if she were singing for an audience. Everyone in the ward knew when Sister Driggs was in church and where she was sitting. I would slump down on the bench next to her, hoping beyond hope that I could disappear into the burgundy pew.

Not uncommon to my age, I wasn’t a very pleasant person to be with and didn’t treat my grandma as well as I should have. I resented Grandma Jean; I didn’t want her to drive me to the dentist or come to parent-teacher conferences or take me to buy new shoes. I wanted my mother to do those things. In my immature mind I seemed to think that if Grandma weren’t there my mom would be. I thought that she was the cause of my problems, that somehow she was to blame for all that was difficult about my life. I wished she would leave me alone; I was sure life would be easier without her.

I was so wrong. It pains me to think of what I lost by being resentful and not recognizing what I had and what my grandma did for me. I guess that saying is true: you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone. Grandma Jean passed away while I was on my mission. I remember the last time I saw her; I stopped to visit her in the hospital on my way to the MTC. She was so happy to see me already set-apart and dressed as a missionary. I made her proud. When I hugged her and said goodbye, I knew it was for the last time. In the last months of her life, Grandma Jean put a lot of effort into writing me letters. The letters never said much and were hard to read because of her shaky, old hands, but I cherished them because I knew that it was a challenge for her to write them. I knew that she loved me. President Lewis called me on a Thursday night in February to convey the news that my grandma had died.

Grandma Jean seems to be as much a part of my life now as ever. I miss her terribly and think about her often. At Christmas, at the monthly family dinner, at my cousin’s wedding I expect to see Grandma and my spirits fall when I remember that she’s not here. Now my mom is the organizer and the family gathers at her house; Grandma’s paintings cover the walls. Ironically enough, it feels wrong that Mom has taken over Grandma’s role. I tear-up when I realize that my husband and children will only know Grandma Jean through the stories I tell about her.

Last week at Family Home Evening we told about our heroes; I talked about Grandma Jean and missed her again. “I admire my grandma’s ability to forgive,” I said. “It’s because of her that I knew my grandpa.” I eat toast and peanut butter every December first—Grandma’s birthday; my mom says that makes her day. I hear my brother say “one of these first days” and I smile; he got that from Grandma Jean. Out to lunch, my mom and I laugh when I say that I want to take a piece of cornbread home in my purse; Grandma did that and liked to eat it with milk for breakfast. I love to listen to Handel’s Messiah; Grandma loved to sing it. I visited the Sistine Chapel and I cried; Grandma Jean would have loved to have gone there—I’ll have to enjoy it for her. I apply to take the Praxis exam and I remember her: Name (Last, First Middle). The Bishop asks for my full name; “Rebecca Jean,” I say proudly. I look at my crooked pinky fingers, see my eyes in a mirror, notice my high forehead, hear my own surprised laugh, and I know that Grandma Jean will always be a part of my life.