For Onis

I've had the honor of being loved by three grandfathers in my life, a rare and special gift for which I am very grateful.  My Papaw died when I was 11, my Grandfather when I was 18, and now Onis, technically my step-grandfather, when I am 31. Three very different men, but similar in their capacity to love their families deeply and the Lord moreso.  I want to whine that I did not have enough time with any of them, but I will give thanks instead for the years of my life they did fill and be comforted in the knowledge that I will see them, happily, again.


My Mamaw married Onis when I was 18 and away at college.  I wasn't able to come to the wedding but I saw pictures of the grinning couple, saw Mamaw in her beautiful red dress, and looked forward to knowing this new member of the family.  But the speed of life in college and beyond, not to mention my habit of moving far, far away, kept me from spending much time with Onis.  I knew and loved him peripherally, the way one intrinsically loves a person that brings a loved one joy.  He made Mamaw happy, thus, I loved him.

It wasn't until August of 2005 that he became a grandfather, in the sense I'd come to associate with that word.  In August of that year I was living in New Orleans, attending law school, and I evacuated back home to Arkansas for what felt like the umpteenth time to once again kill a few days while the hurricane threat loomed.  Hurricane Katrina, in my mind, would be no different from every other evacuation.  I'd get a nice, long weekend with my Mamaw, and then I'd lug my little duffle bag back to New Orleans. 

Hurricane Katrina did not turn out the way I'd expected.  The long weekend became five months.  I cannot say they were a happy five months as I was consumed by anxiety over my degree, my friends, and what would be left of my life in New Orleans. Midway through my stay, I drove to New Orleans, best friend and law school roommate, Stephanie, in tow from her own evacuation story.  That trip is both a blur and a hodgepodge of images vividly burned into my skull.  But one of the most powerful memories I have from that trip was returning to my adopted home after hours on the road.  I remember Mamaw being in the kitchen and Onis coming to the door to help me with my bag.  And I remember his smile, that big, loving, nothing-can-ever-go-wrong smile as he said, "there's our girl!" and hugged me, patting my newly permed mess of hair, his hand getting tangled briefly.  Mamaw came in and said he'd been sitting in his chair by the window ever since I'd called from Memphis, intermittently napping and pacing, worrying about the rain, the traffic.

Looking back, I thank God for those five months.  To live with Mamaw and Onis as an adult, to play games with them, to watch TV, to talk early in the morning with Onis as he logged his two mile indoor laps around the living room, to sit at the dining table with a plate of crackers and peanut butter, to listen to him play the harmonica, to hear their prayers before we ate, to unpack their groceries, to kiss them both on the cheek when I went to bed, to love them the way you only learn to do when they sleep in the same house...those were gifts.

The ache of losing him is made easier, or will be made easier, by the memory of those moments, those smiles at the door, and the one thing he said to me over and over again in the five months I lived under his roof.

Almost every morning when I left for class, or sometimes when we were just sitting in the living room, silent, Onis would say to me, "you make yourself at home, honey.  This is your home.  You're home now." 

And now, I can say the same to him.