This is Chapter 29 - Grandma Jernigan from my upcoming book, “Parkinson’s & Recreation 3 - The No Parkinson’s Zone”
“A mother becomes a true grandmother the day she stops noticing the terrible things her children do because she is so enchanted with the wonderful things her grandchildren do.”
—Lois Wyse
I woke from sleep around five in the morning, groggy, yet aware that something was different in the air— like there had been a disturbance in the force ala Obi-Wan Kenobi, sensing the sudden destruction of Alderaan in the original 1977 film “Star Wars”. I had been here before as a fourteen-year-old. Incredible that the thoughts of a young teenager would flood the mind of a fifty-eight year-old man…but flood they did.
The same feeling of loss. The same feeling of dread. The same feeling of knowing, yet wanting to deny that knowing. Should I go to the hospital? Should I call my brother, Sam, who had spent the night in Dad’s hospital room? Should I try to go back to sleep? And then I felt Melinda shaking me awake at five-thirty. Sleep had won. All she said was, “Your brother, Sam, just called. Your dad passed away.”
Hurriedly putting on our clothes and heading to the hospital, my thoughts once again went back to that early January morning in 1974 when my Grandma Jernigan died. Even as I thought about that very moment, thoughts of grief gave way to sweetness of memories and the preciousness of the relationship between a boy and his grandma.
Born Myrtle Mae Snyder on April 17, 1901, my Grandma Jernigan had been a major influencer in my life ever since I could remember. My first recollection of her existence was when I was a young boy of three or four years of age. At that time, Grandma lived in Okmulgee, about twenty-three miles away from the farm where I lived with my family. She lived with her father, my Granddad Snyder, as we called him, in a small wood-frame house. Next to that house was a free-standing garage. What I remember about that old garage is the smell. Having a dirt floor and constructed of wood, the dampness of the air combined with the aromas of the dirt and wood made for a most wonderful olfactory memory in my mind. To this day, whenever I smell a similar aroma, I am instantly transported back to that place and those wonderful visits to Grandma’s house.
Our trips to Okmulgee were frequent, as my dad took the time to check up on Grandma and Granddad as often as he could. My recollections run wild with joy as I recall my brothers and I sparring for the prized place above the back window of the sedan where we could lie down in the days before seatbelt laws and car seats. If I could not be first to that place, the next most-prized position was that of lying on the floorboard, especially during the cold days of winter, because the heat generated from the drive shaft directly below was sure to keep our little-boy bodies nice and cozy!
During such trips to see Grandma, my dad was one of those “I won't stop ’til I get there” kind of dads, meaning that even if a little-boy bladder felt as if it would explode, we were not pulling over. Period. Looking back, I must admit that each time me or one of my brothers asked to stop and pee, we each sheepishly enjoyed seeing who could fill up the pop bottle my dad inevitably told us to pee in the fullest. I do not remember ever stopping, but I do remember peeing in those bottles while speeding down the road!
No sooner would we arrive at Grandma’s then we raced from the car to the porch. More often than not, we did not have the time to knock on the door because Grandma had somehow known we were coming and would be there waiting for us with open arms. How I loved being swept up in those arms! Such moments are seared in my soul, like being wrapped up in sheer, pureness of love those hugs were. Being a grandfather myself now, I know that feeling from her point of view. The love of a grandparent is pure and unadulterated passion over the existence of that grandchild. The love I recall emanating from her with each and every encounter was simple. She loved me for no other reason than I existed!
On those visits, Grandma would always play the piano for us, because Granddad Snyder enjoyed her playing. Sitting there at that old upright piano, Grandma would play the most beautiful progressions of chords, often singing the words of the old hymns she played. While my little brothers would scamper around the house, I would sit rapt with wonder as I watched her play with such confidence and ease, singing with such conviction and passion. My wonder at her abilities was not lost on her. She noticed. And she encouraged me toward music, always telling me I had a gift, long before I even knew what that meant.
Granddad Snyder passed away when I was about eight or nine. I do not recall much about that time in my life other than the wonderful news that Grandma Jernigan would be moving into a trailer home on our farm, right next to our house! Anticipation about such a wondrous event I had not known until that period of my life. No longer would I have to endure the twenty-three mile trip and peeing in a pop bottle! No longer would I have to fight with my brothers over the prime space of the rear window of the car! No longer would I have to wait so long between trips to see her. Grandma would be as close as next door!
Shortly after the trailer was moved in and all the utilities connected, Grandma was living right next door. Soon after, my dad and brothers and I built a porch for her, complete with a porch swing. I can still smell the “new-trailer-house” smell and can still see the small kitchen and dining area to the right after walking inside. I can still see the tiny hallway leading to the spare bedroom on the left (where I was sure I would one day be able to spend an occasional night) followed by the one bathroom for the entire house. Going on down the hallway, the back door to the right, the house ended with Grandma’s bedroom, frilly and old-fashioned, with an antique dresser with an oval mirror on one side of the room and her bed covered with a quilt she had made by hand adorning it on the other. I felt a little-boy reverence for this room, and rarely dared to enter as a result.
The most special room in the entire house? The living room. In actuality, the living room was simply an extension of the kitchen and dining area. One long, narrow room we found ourselves in on entry. The only furniture besides the small dinner table was a faux leather chair, a faux leather couch…and a piano. When Grandma moved in, she gave her old upright piano to me and bought herself a small spinet which made for more room in her small home. While I loved having a piano at home, I loved the more pleasing sound of Grandma’s spinet. Even more than that, I loved, and came to crave, the attention and encouragement playing her piano afforded me.
It had been my Aunt Patsy who had taught me to play the little children’s song “I Dropped My Dolly”, but it was Grandma Jernigan who taught me to explore on the piano. It was she who gave me permission to play for the sheer joy of playing. It was she who taught me how to hear the relationship between the one chord and the IV chord and the V chord, and how those same progressions could be played in any key! Like suddenly being granted the ability to speak a foreign language, this simple knowledge unlocked a whole new world of discovery and adventure to me as a boy. Like honey to a bear, I took to the piano. And Grandma Jernigan encouraged me every step of the way.
In the winter time, it was not uncommon for me to be doing my chores in the barnyard next to her house only to see her stick her head out of her back door and call out to me, “Come in here and warm up your hands on the piano when you’re done with your chores, son!” I was only too happy to oblige!
In my later years, her home would become a refuge for me. When the boys at school discovered I loved music and I would rather be playing the piano than doing almost anything else, I would be reduced to tears of bewilderment as I went crying to Grandma’s arms after such encounters. I remember her saying to me, “Those boys don’t understand that your ability to play the piano is a gift from God.” And I would reply, “If it’s a gift from God, why would they tease me like that? I hate my gift!” She gently reminded me that “not only do those boys not understand your gift, you don't understand it either, but one day you will.” Although I did not realize it at the time, my grandma would stand behind me each time I came to her house to play and would pray for me, asking the Lord to use me in the area of music and worship for His kingdom and His glory. The reason I know that?
Even though my grandma died when I was fourteen years old, I did not discover that she had prayed for me until I was in my fourtiess! It happened like this. In the mid-nineties, I held a “Night of Praise” worship concert in the Community Center in Boynton. After the concert, a little old lady came up to speak with me. I recognized her immediately. June Smith had been a friend of my grandmother’s all those many years ago. She said to me, “Isn’t it wonderful how your grandmother’s prayers were answered?” I responded with, “What do you mean?” Her response blew my mind because, just two weeks before, I had asked the Lord to show me His point of view on certain episodes of my life when I had felt abandoned.One of those times was when my grandma passed away and my refuge was suddenly taken from me. After making that request to God in prayer, I had not thought much more about it until that conversation with June Smith.
She went on. “Do you remember when you would go to your grandmother’s house and play the piano?” I nodded that I did, adding, “Those were some of my most precious memories. But how do you know that?”
“She would stand behind you and pray for you, asking the Lord to use you in the area of music and worship for His kingdom and His glory.”
“How do you know that?!” I implored.
What she shared next reminded me of the prayer I had prayed only two weeks before. “Every week for several years, she would come to our women’s prayer meeting and ask us to agree with her in prayer for your life, and we still do!”
Immediately, my heart was encouraged that even after all these years and after many of those years spent wondering why Grandma Jernigan had abandoned me, I was assured of several things. The Lord had always been with me. My grandmother’s prayers had been answered. Her prayers (through her friends) were still covering me. And I was again assured that I will see my grandma again. Amazing.
Speaking of those prayer meetings, occasionally, Grandma Jernigan would invite the ladies of her church to her little trailer home for their mid-week prayer time. And when those gatherings took place in her home, I could hear a whole lot of noise (shouting and praising and such) and wondered what exactly was going on. On one such occasion, my little brother, Bob, and I decided to hide out in the spare bedroom and find out for ourselves what went on in such gatherings. Being an Assemblies of God group, they were loud and boisterous and prayed out loud in concert, meaning that all prayed out loud at the same time.
As the prayers began lifting toward heaven, the words were clear and discernible to me, since I was used to church lingo. “Amen!” and “Hallelujah!” and “Praise the Lord!” were easily recognizable between the “bless Sister Hawley with healing” and “provide for the needs of the Smith Family” and “Jesus save the poor lost souls of Boynton”. But soon, the words became less and less recognizable to my very Southern Baptist ears! After things settled down and Grandma’s friends all left, my brother and I sheepishly came out of hiding. Grandma just laughed.
Grandma went to the Assemblies of God Church. We attended First Baptist. When I would attend with her at the Assemblies Church, worship was loud and went on for a long time. At her church, everyone prayed at the same time. At her church, people spoke in different languages. And most intriguing of all? Sometimes someone would say, “Thus saith the Lord!” and deliver what they said were the “Words of God” to the congregation! At my church, worship was very predictable and not so long. We sang two hymns and then had a special song by a soloist or the choir and then one more hymn and then the sermon. At my church, we prayed one at a time. In my church no one ever said “Thus saith the Lord!” We read the Bible as God’s voice to us. My little-boy memories of the differences between the two are quite humorous to me in retrospect. My conclusion as a boy? At Grandma’s church God still spoke. In my church, we only read the letters He had written to us!
Grandma’s influence on my life went far beyond music. To this day, the things she taught me about the Holy Spirit continue to impact me. Often, she would have me sit down and watch a Christian minister on television and encourage me to pay attention to what was going on. While watching Kathryn Kuhlman, I saw people fall to the ground, entire congregations, under the power of the Holy Spirit. While watching an Oral Roberts broadcast, she would encourage me to believe God could heal people just as Oral Roberts did on those broadcasts. These shows, along with the “Gospel Singing Jubilee" every Sunday morning kept me focused on the spiritual, even when I had no idea what that meant!
My Grandfather Jernigan died when I was about a year old. Grandma told me he loved and was so proud of me that he would take me on his lap in his pickup truck and show me off around the county to anyone he came in contact with. Even now, the thought of this does my heart good to know I was loved like that. Grandma told me some amazing things about my grandpa and about heaven. She told me that when he died, he was instantly with Jesus, that she would see him again some day soon, but that she would not recognize him right away.
I am now convinced that she knew I was in denial about the possibility of her own death in light of how she talked about such things and that she was wisely preparing me for the inevitableness of her own death. She told me wondrous things about the day she would die—of how she would spend time worshiping Jesus when she first arrived and of how glorious that time would be when she saw Jesus face to face. She then told me the most awe-inspiring things about the reality of what she expected after worshiping Jesus for awhile.
Telling me she would not recognize my grandfather in heaven, I simply asked, “Why?” She went on to explain that when a person dies, they are given a new body—a glorified body, she called it—and that each person who enters heaven is given a new name, “A new name in glory!” Then she told me that the first thing she would do after worshiping Jesus would be to call out my grandfather's new name and that he would come to her when she had done so! Then she told me the most amazing thing I had heard in my life until that point. She told me my grandfather’s new name in glory! And, yes, I still remember it. And, no, I will not share it at this time…
Grandma had been in the hospital for several days. My dad had been a bit frustrated with the doctors who asked him if she had ever had a drinking problem! Dad had said in no way, shape, or form had she ever had a drinking problem, telling them insistently that she had never had even a drop of alcohol touch her lips. Even so, the doctors told my dad that she was dying of cirrhosis of the liver, a disease often associated with alcohol abuse.
On January 20, 1974, I heard the phone ring about three-thirty in the morning and then heard my dad’s footsteps downstairs as he stumbled to the phone. Only a few days before, my grandmother had been admitted to the hospital in Tulsa. I heard my dad answer the phone and begin to sob. I had never seen nor heard my father cry before that night. To hear him in uncontrollable, unconsolable sobs scared me. At the same time, it broke my heart that my grandmother, for all I know, had been alone when she died. Yet, I knew she was looking into the face of Jesus at that moment, and I imagined she had already called out the new name my grandfather was known by in heaven that the Holy Spirit had whispered to her just a few months before.
The very next day, her pastor came to our house to meet with my dad to discuss funeral plans. Without hesitation, I went to the place I had hidden Grandma’s funeral plans and carried them downstairs. Interrupting their meeting, I simply said, “Here are Grandma’s plans for her funeral. She’s taken care of everything. Here are the songs. Here are the Scriptures she wants read. This is what she wanted to do to minister to us.” Then, I walked out of the room as my dad and the pastor sat there in stunned silence.
Being awkwardly fourteen, I was so self-conscious at the funeral. Having been so close to Grandma, I took her death very personally, like I was the only one affected by it. Numb from the loss, I sat there while those songs were sung and stared blankly into space while the verses were read. But then the words to Grandma’s song for the family shook me to awareness and the stark reality that she was really gone.
I Want to Stroll Over Heaven With You
If I surveyed all the good things that come to me from above
If I could count all the blessings from the storehouse of love
I'd simply ask for the favor of Him beyond mortal end
And I'm sure He would grant it again and again
I want to stroll over Heaven with you some glad day
When all the troubles and heartaches are truly vanished away
Then we'll enjoy the beauty where all things are new
I want to stroll over Heaven with you
So many places of beauty we long to see here below
But time and treasures have kept us from making plans as you know
But come the morning of rapture together we'll be
I want to stroll over Heaven with you
I want to stroll over Heaven with you some glad day
When all the troubles and heartaches are truly vanished away
Then we'll enjoy the beauty where all things are new
I want to stroll over Heaven with you
We’ll renew old acquaintance with the friends we once knew
then we’ll meet all our loved ones and meet Jesus, too
That will be a glad reunion and there’ll be much to view
While I stroll over heaven with you
I want to stroll over Heaven with you some glad day
When all the troubles and heartaches are truly vanished away
Then we'll enjoy the beauty where all things are new
I want to stroll over Heaven with you
—Words & Music by Milton A. Dodson
© 1956 Dodson Music Co.
Used by permission
When Grandma passed away, I was suddenly aware of the brevity of life. With Grandma went her home and possessions, including the piano. Since we had long ago given the old upright away, her piano was the only piano I had easy access to on a regular basis. A year later, my parents surprised me with a new piano on my sixteenth birthday, and all was well. Even remembering loss, one cannot but help remember the blessings given even in the midst of that loss. As with my grandmother who saw my grandfather again, I am reminded that death is not the end for the believer in and follower of Christ. Which reminds me of how much closer that day has come for me…
Daddy had slipped into eternity with Jesus around five in the morning on August 31, 2017. In that moment, he was reunited with his dad and mom, and just as with his mom, my grandmother, had done before, my dad had already planned his own funeral service. He wanted it to be a celebration. He wanted me to sing fifteen of my own songs, listing them all by title. Time did not allow for that many, but in the days to follow, I sang all fifteen publicly via social media. And, my memory is drawn, once again, to my precious grandma playing that old piano when I was just a little boy, and I am there, once again, in that place of completely being loved—just because I exist.
