In Search of Grace
June 26, 2004
Home from college for the weekend, I sat at my grandparents’ kitchen table, reading and eating breakfast. I was working and taking classes that summer, so this was the first time I could come home to visit since the regular school year had ended.
“What you doing in school?” my grandfather, Theodore Dennis, asked as he walked into the kitchen, grabbed something from the pantry, and turned around to look at me, awaiting my answer. Surprised, I sat back, unsure of what he was asking. More surprised, in fact, because little communication between us had taken place over the last few years besides a “hello” from me and a head nod from him.
“Ummm…studying journalism. I’m taking summer school now to take care of some other classes, though.”
“When you graduate?” he asked.
“I have another year,” I responded. “Done by May 2005.”
I, in fact, did not have another year. I had two. Trying to deal with depression and anxiety alone in college had put me behind, and rather than take the one or two courses I needed, I stayed for an entire extra year.
“Okay, okay.” My grandfather sat down at the kitchen table and began to eat. What it was, I don’t remember. How long we sat there, I don’t remember. I can’t recall another time when we sat in the same space together for anything. But even though little was said, it is the conversation I remember most and the one I hold closest to my heart.
August 2021
“That was grace,” my mom said. “I know it was. I told your grandmother as much years ago.”
“What do you mean?” I asked my mom after we recounted that day when she spent some time with me at my place.
“You and your grandfather. That was grace. I don’t know if he knew that was his last day or not, but I believe God put it in him so both of you could be shown some grace that day.”
June 26, 2004
As I spent the day with my mother, walking around stores, talking, and window shopping, my phone rang. My cousin Keith had called to tell me that my grandfather had been rushed to the hospital after collapsing on his walk home from the corner store. My mother and I rushed to her car and then to the hospital, only to be told immediately upon arrival by my grandmother that he hadn’t made it.
I can’t explain what came over me. I stepped outside of the hospital, crying, not allowing my mother to comfort me out of fear of a full meltdown right on the street. At the time, I mourned, because after all, he was my grandfather. Now, however, I believe that those tears were a release. A release recognizing that even through so many years of very little communication, my grandfather chose that day to sit down at the table with me and show me a little grace.
My grandfather and I didn’t have the best relationship. I can’t explain why. I don’t know why, really. I know that he didn’t have the best childhood, and I know that he was a man of very few words unless there was something to laugh or complain about. Thinking about my own childhood and the fact that we were both Aquariuses, I imagine that holding most of our feelings inside until we blew up, no matter the situation, may have been a part of the reason we had little to say to each other over the years.
I watched my grandfather call my cousins to check in with them regularly. I watched him leave the home he and my grandmother shared for decades to go on trips to visit his kids and grandkids. As a child myself, I loved going to my grandparents’ home but typically shrunk myself in the presence of my grandfather. I didn’t know him. It was hard for me to reconcile our relationship and our lack of familiarity, so I chose to immerse myself in my grandmother’s presence, also an Aquarius and my birthday twin.
When my mother and I moved into my grandparents’ house in 1997, not much changed. I chose to tiptoe around my grandfather and not bring too much attention to myself. I spent most of my time at school, church, or somewhere outside of the house, and when I was home, I was either watching television with my grandma or in my room reading or writing. I always felt as if I bothered my grandfather, so I stayed out of his presence as much as possible.
We bumped heads a few times, mostly because I didn’t understand him, nor did he understand me. Two entirely different people from two different generations, one who expected blind obedience where children were seen and not heard, and one who thrived in relationships that depended on agency and communication.
I hold no ill will towards my grandfather. When I hear my cousins speak of him, I smile, not because I’m familiar with what they’ve experienced, but because it is just that: their experience. I would never want to take that away from them. His last day, sitting with me at the kitchen table rather than grabbing what he needed and vacating quickly, is how I remember him. A grandfather who felt it necessary to know something about his granddaughter’s life chose the hours before his death to sit peacefully at the kitchen table with her, eating breakfast, and giving grace.
Enjoy what you’ve read? Subscribe and be notified whenever I post something new! I appreciate the support.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nayesha A. Pruitt is a licensed therapist, School Counselor, adjunct professor, writer, mentor and entrepreneur. She’s also the Co-Founder, Consultant, and COO of Project Restore Initiative, an organization dedicated to supporting schools and other institutions in creating safe spaces for staff and those they serve.
You can contact Nayesha via Medium or LinkedIn. If she ever decides to get back on FB or IG, she’ll let you know. 😬
