how, and have always come up with the same answer: Trust God. Put your whole hand in His, not just one finger or two. Get to know the feel of your hand in His. This is the only way I have found to live, really live.
“The greater part of our happiness or misery depends on our dispositions and not on our circumstances.” Martha Washington said that, and I can’t help but find a great deal of truth in her statement.
So I must conclude that life is never as we expect it. Life is what we make it.
I want you to try my recipe for Southern Peanut Soup. See if you can taste all the flavors. Sometimes you have to concentrate on the good in order to experience it. The good stuff in life doesn’t always come with a big sign around its neck. We have to look, to seek. You can’t help but find when your hand is firmly encased in His.
Love,
Your Grandpa Ernest
P.S. Eat the soup from the bowl with the raccoon.
I read the letter aloud two times. In between I sniff the paper, note the curve of his letter T, and then study the envelope. I wonder why he never mailed it. There is no date on the letter, no postage. How did he know I would come to live here? Did he write it long ago or just before his stroke? He died instantly, they said. One minute he was enjoying a ride on a sailboat on the coast of the Greek island of Kos, and the next, he toppled over into the ocean. But here is this letter to me, hidden in a cookbook, of all things.
I finger the cookbook, open it, and note the inscription: To Grandpa Ernest, with love from Deena.
When did I send this book to him? Did I mail it? I try to recall, but I’m blanking out on any memory of giving this cookbook to my grandfather.
I read the letter again, pausing after each paragraph, wondering what he hoped to convey to me. Why did he feel the need to write these words to me? I know that in his will, he left instructions to give me this cabin. I’m still not sure why I am the one he bequeathed it to; he has seven other grandchildren. One lives in Los Angeles and has been on TV commercials for toilet cleaners and stain removers. He looks honest as he tells viewers that there is no other product that can do the job like Insta-Clean and Foam-Away. Why did Grandpa choose me over him?
To add to my confusion, now there’s this letter that talks about God and peanut soup. If Grandpa wrote it after my accident, perhaps he was trying to encourage me. But how did Grandpa know how I was feeling? “ Sometimes I have wondered why we have to face so much sorrow in this world.” As I read the words this time, I feel the backs of my eyes stinging. Giving in to tears again will surely leave me useless the rest of the day. And I have unpacking to do, and a heart to mend.
When the doorbell rings, I hope it’s Grandpa Ernest so I can ask him the questions that have formed tangles in my mind.
I open the door to find a man standing on the stoop by the chopped firewood. His back is to me, and it looks like he is testing the railing of the stoop by kicking the wood with his leather boot.
eight
T he man is wearing dark jeans, a checkered shirt the color of roasted duck, and a bright yellow bandana around his head. In his hand is a large wrench. He turns to greet me with a boyish smile. “Well, hello.”
He is not my grandpa back from the dead. Tentatively, I say, “Hello.” I’m in the mountains—home to boiled peanuts and apple cider. Surely everything is congenial and kind here. This man isn’t on “America’s Most Wanted.” I’ve left Atlanta behind.
With arms crossed around his trim waist, he says, “You must be Deirdre.”
“No. No, I’m not.”
He raises an eyebrow and I say, “Maybe you have the wrong house.”
In a methodical tone, as if from memory, he tells me, “Pass the red barn, Memorial Methodist Church, first right.”
Is he giving the location of this cabin? I’m surprised he didn’t mention “And turn down the gravel path that is too narrow to be called a
“The greater part of our happiness or misery depends on our dispositions and not on our circumstances.” Martha Washington said that, and I can’t help but find a great deal of truth in her statement.
So I must conclude that life is never as we expect it. Life is what we make it.
I want you to try my recipe for Southern Peanut Soup. See if you can taste all the flavors. Sometimes you have to concentrate on the good in order to experience it. The good stuff in life doesn’t always come with a big sign around its neck. We have to look, to seek. You can’t help but find when your hand is firmly encased in His.
Love,
Your Grandpa Ernest
P.S. Eat the soup from the bowl with the raccoon.
I read the letter aloud two times. In between I sniff the paper, note the curve of his letter T, and then study the envelope. I wonder why he never mailed it. There is no date on the letter, no postage. How did he know I would come to live here? Did he write it long ago or just before his stroke? He died instantly, they said. One minute he was enjoying a ride on a sailboat on the coast of the Greek island of Kos, and the next, he toppled over into the ocean. But here is this letter to me, hidden in a cookbook, of all things.
I finger the cookbook, open it, and note the inscription: To Grandpa Ernest, with love from Deena.
When did I send this book to him? Did I mail it? I try to recall, but I’m blanking out on any memory of giving this cookbook to my grandfather.
I read the letter again, pausing after each paragraph, wondering what he hoped to convey to me. Why did he feel the need to write these words to me? I know that in his will, he left instructions to give me this cabin. I’m still not sure why I am the one he bequeathed it to; he has seven other grandchildren. One lives in Los Angeles and has been on TV commercials for toilet cleaners and stain removers. He looks honest as he tells viewers that there is no other product that can do the job like Insta-Clean and Foam-Away. Why did Grandpa choose me over him?
To add to my confusion, now there’s this letter that talks about God and peanut soup. If Grandpa wrote it after my accident, perhaps he was trying to encourage me. But how did Grandpa know how I was feeling? “ Sometimes I have wondered why we have to face so much sorrow in this world.” As I read the words this time, I feel the backs of my eyes stinging. Giving in to tears again will surely leave me useless the rest of the day. And I have unpacking to do, and a heart to mend.
When the doorbell rings, I hope it’s Grandpa Ernest so I can ask him the questions that have formed tangles in my mind.
I open the door to find a man standing on the stoop by the chopped firewood. His back is to me, and it looks like he is testing the railing of the stoop by kicking the wood with his leather boot.
eight
T he man is wearing dark jeans, a checkered shirt the color of roasted duck, and a bright yellow bandana around his head. In his hand is a large wrench. He turns to greet me with a boyish smile. “Well, hello.”
He is not my grandpa back from the dead. Tentatively, I say, “Hello.” I’m in the mountains—home to boiled peanuts and apple cider. Surely everything is congenial and kind here. This man isn’t on “America’s Most Wanted.” I’ve left Atlanta behind.
With arms crossed around his trim waist, he says, “You must be Deirdre.”
“No. No, I’m not.”
He raises an eyebrow and I say, “Maybe you have the wrong house.”
In a methodical tone, as if from memory, he tells me, “Pass the red barn, Memorial Methodist Church, first right.”
Is he giving the location of this cabin? I’m surprised he didn’t mention “And turn down the gravel path that is too narrow to be called a
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