The Experience of Studying Hebrew as a Student Who is Blind
Sarah Blake is a licensed minister with the Church of God (Anderson, IN). She is available to provide biblical teaching, ministry seminars, or music ministry for your church. Hear samples from some of her presentations and contact her for booking information.
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On Christmas Eve, I expect her to ride up in a car with Gramps and come in lugging a clothes basket full of gifts. I often hear her chuckle as if she was reading along as I read something funny. I wonder what she would think of the house I live in now. ...
She was my mother's mother. She was an integral part of my childhood and adolescence... But she left along with my adolescence, almost as if her days had been planned that way ... almost as if our days had been planned that way... For she was there with my mother shortly after my premature birth, and I was there, almost by coincidence, when she died.
I don't believe in coincidences, though. I loved Granny, and she loved me. According to Granny, "That's all there is." But love like that is no small thing. I never realized when I was a child how strong the bond between us was. I thought we shared a typical relationship between grandmother and granddaughter. How foolish I was! How innocent...
Granny was diagnosed with breast cancer in the spring of 1989. I don't recall asking many questions. I don't know that I would have received thorough answers. But I wanted to understand ... and I was frightened. I had heard of cancer when I was a child. But I only knew that it killed--and at 16, I was not ready for anything to kill my grandmother.
I spent many evenings pretending to be asleep while I listened to conversations held by adults in the family. I took refuge in my bedroom and sought comfort from Becky, my best friend, and a boyfriend who did not understand or care to offer comfort.
Mom let me stay home from school on the day that Granny had her mastectomy. I don't remember much about that day. It seems I remember sitting out on a stone bench in some kind of courtyard and cried. I think one or two old family friends from church were there. The rest of the day is wiped clean from my memory.
I went back to school on Tuesday. I know that I sat through my first class (algebra?) like a zombie. I had my senior picture taken at some point during the morning. My friend, Samantha, helped me with my cap and gown. "What's wrong?" she asked. I don't remember what I said. I only remember fighting back tears and wanting to smack the camera man who kept shouting, "Smile!" Why should I smile?
Samantha helped me change back into my everyday clothes, and I went to my French class. I loved French. But that day, even French couldn't capture me. I must not have been very good at faking attention. My teacher came and asked if I was ok. I shook my head.
"Are you sick?" she asked.
I wished I was. Life would be so much easier if I could just be sick. I'd have a reason to go home. I didn't have a reason to go home. Granny's surgery had gone well, and she was going to be fine. I shook my head. I was not sick.
My teacher was no fool. There was something going on, and she was going to find it. "Do you just not want to be here?" she asked gently.
Now that was something I could answer. I shook my head, and the floodgates opened. "Can I please go use the phone?" I whispered.
She took me across the hall to the teachers' lounge, and I called my mother. Someone came and picked me up. I spent most of the afternoon at the hospital; but my wish to be sick came true, and I went home with a raging fever. I missed the entire week of school.
Granny was fine. For the next two years she was happy and healthy.
I feel the same as I did yesterday, or even last year. So I'm now seventy years old--no big deal. I've already seen sixty-nine birthdays come and go and life went on. I realized it bothered my children when my middle-aged son (he's going to hate that) phoned and discreetly asked questions, trying to determine if I were depressed about my age. Then a note from a daughter, wondering about my birth--who was the mid-wife? Mid-wife! Does she think I was born before doctors were invented?
I checked my birth certificate, which was signed by Dr. Overmass. You remember him. Sure, you do. He used to live in that yellow house on the corner on Main Street.
Then I phoned my older sister to ask if she remembers where I was born. She does. I was born at 3:00 a.m. (Mine were never born that early, but they sure did get me out of bed soon after midnight.) "Upstairs in Grandpa Schneider's house. Aunt Celia was there and Paul (her teen-age son) came and woke me up, carried me upstairs. They asked me again what I wanted for my birthday and I said, 'A cat.' I'd been wavering between a cat and a baby sister. Then they took me in to see the baby." She didn't say if she was disappointed. ...
At the age of 70, she began work on the most important writing project she ever took on. She worked without anyone else's knowledge, and although the project was probably not completed to her satisfaction, it was perfect.
In March, 1991, she was told during a routine examination that her breast cancer had metastasized to the lungs. She was still doing very well, and the doctor believed that the tumor would be slow-growing.
Still, she knew that she needed to prepare herself in every way for the decline of her health. She began to write out her memories, working on her daughter's (my mother's) computer.
An awful lot of stuff accumulates in the memory in seventy years. Not much in the short term memory, but the long term memory is a cluttered mess (kind of like my closets).
Pull out one memory and dozens fall out with it. No matter what anyone says, it reminds me of something "back when." ... Just as these memories are stored in a helter-skelter way in my mind, that's the way they will appear.
No one found her work until March, 1992. By that time, she was bedridden, and her health was quickly declining. I was home from college for spring break. Bored with my work on a research paper, I began snooping through my parents' files. Occasionally, I found interesting tidbits or files I had written while I was home that I had forgotten to save on floppy disks. "Granny" was the name of the file. What on earth could that be? As I opened it, I felt like a child snatching forbidden cookies from the cookie jar.
Maybe if I write down the important things, I can read whatever I forget. It would be nice if my children and their children would read them and say, "My, wasn't she brave!" --or wise--or even, "Wasn't she something?" Or "That explains a lot!" ...
My guilt vanished, and I began to devour the stories. In addition to her memories, Granny had transcribed many of her columns from the church newsletter. At nineteen, I had just begun to be interested in relating to my family on a spiritual level. Granny's writing would be my only connection to her faith and beliefs.
Granny's trip downhill was rapid after the cancer had entered her brain; however, the time was beautiful for our family. We grew closer to each other and to God. She died on Easter Morning, April 19, 1992. I am glad that she did not have much pain, and I am glad for the time I was able to spend with her and for the things I learned about her.
Granny's writings have acquainted me with her thinking and her relationship to God, making her a major contributor to my spiritual growth. I am greatful to her for leaving me this legacy, and I hope that someday I will do the same for someone else.
Adventure in the
Park
Granny shares what she learned about her faith while watching me play at the park.
Invisible
World
Granny observes things about my interactions with the environment,
comparing blindness to the idea of a sighted person living in an
invisible world.
Charlie Brown
Granny reflects on the social impact of my blindness.
My Prayer Page
Granny wrote a lot about prayer. Some of this writing is on my prayer page.
Glorifying God in Life and
Death
During the last weeks of my grandmother's life, I learned what it means to glorify God.
Easter Morning
This poem describes the final moments of my grandmother's life as
they were experienced by her family.
Gramps
Gramps was as steady a presence in my life as Granny. Here is my tribute to him.
Sarah J. Blake