Church Girl Musings - Part 4 - Open Hands

 

This is the fourth in a short series of blog posts about being raised a church girl and those who influenced me along the way. The “Church Girl” theme of a recent women’s conference at my church acknowledged the stereotype that labels a church girl with a long list of unrealistic expectations. And it clarified the real definition that a church girl is imperfect and accepted and called whatever God calls her.

One of the women that influenced this church girl was Ibby. Her name was Isabel but everyone called her Ibby.  I watched her closely for the ten years I finished growing up attending the same church where she worshipped.

We got a phone call one Sunday morning when I was 13. I could tell from my mom’s reaction that it was terrible news.  “Oh my – that’s heart breaking – we’ll be praying.”  It was Ibby’s husband, Bill.  He was a brakeman for the Illinois Central Railroad and his train had a collision early that morning.

My family had known Ibby for about five years, but that day she took on a new role for me.  She was one of the first women I witnessed experiencing the transition of widowhood. That bridge between unbearable sorrow to complete sufficiency of a partnership with God.

A few months after her husband’s death, we gave her a ride home from church one night. As we turned on to her street, she cried out with a wail that pierced the quietness of the night.  She had suddenly remembered that he wouldn’t be there when she got home. The depth of her grief that night hit me with such force that my memory of it remains visceral almost fifty years later.

Throughout my teenage years I saw Ibby immerse herself in productive busyness.  She began to augment her income by flipping houses.  In the 70’s that term had not been coined yet, but it’s exactly what she did.  Rather than flipping in a few days or weeks, her strategy was to buy a house and move into it and re-do it while living there over a period of months or a couple years.  My parents and I often visited her to see the before and after of her latest investment.  She had an eye for decorating and a vision for how a house could look with a little paint and updated decor. She took creative pleasure in her handiwork and was always in the middle of a project, stripping an old piece of furniture or sewing a new window treatment.

On Friday nights she often hosted our church youth group at her house.  This was long after her own children were grown and long before her grandchildren were in the youth group.  She reached out to a group of kids who would otherwise be driving the main drag from one side of town to the other. She offered her home and food and company and the gift of a safe place to hang out. She was spunky. She held strong opinions on issues of the day and used her living room platform to give us advice about living right.  She was a woman of prayer and many times prayed a powerful prayer over us before we left her house. She had time for us. She MADE time for us.

Ibby taught me that staying busy and serving others are good ways to survive life’s grief. And she showed me David’s position of open palms of surrender to Him.

My eyes are dim with grief. I call to you, LORD, every day; I spread out my hands to you. [Ps 88:9, NIV]

A few weeks before Ibby died, I got to attend her 100^th birthday party,  the only 100^th celebration I’ve ever attended! By then she was not so busy and was letting others serve her. But her hands were still spread open to Him. I know that was her real secret. Thank you, Ibby, from one spunky church girl to another.

I hope my memories have jogged yours. If you are a church girl, who helped make you one? Think beyond the ‘praying grandmother’ and those whose job was to mold you. What about those with a more distant or brief encounter? Who influenced you? Who are you influencing now?