Witnessing Love, Faith and Devotion Through a Granddaughter's Eyes

Being with my grandmother was being in the presence of pure love. While I can attempt to use words to describe this state of being, like most things that truly matter, it is a state of being that is felt, not thought.

As a child, much of my home life was spent with my grandmom. I grew up in a 3 bedroom house of 7 people, my parents, my grandparents, 2 older brothers, and me. I was the last to come along and had somewhat of a nomadic existence in terms of bedroom. For roughly the first 5 years of my life, my parents’ bedroom was where I slept, first in a crib, then in a small twin. For the next 7 years I shared a bed with my grandmom until around 1978 when I took over my brothers’ bedroom, walls covered with photos of Jim Croce, John Denver and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. It was the 70s. But we shared more than a room together. We ate together, played together, did chores together. She taught me how to speak Armenian, mostly Armenian poems that don’t really translate well. So as early as I can remember, my grandmom was always there. Our lives were so integrated. And in reality, in terms of the percentage of time, I spent more time with my grandmom than my parents. So I can still recall, with quite a bit of clarity, the feeling of reunion after the first time that I was separated from her. It was a family trip to New England and Nova Scotia. It was the only time my grandparents didn’t go on vacation with us, they stayed behind this time to run their tailor shop instead of closing the store for the week. I was 4 years old. I don’t remember experiencing separation anxiety or anything of that nature. I enjoyed the trip, the pretty scenery, the cooler weather. It was August and the cooler temperatures were quite welcome. But what I remember most vividly, even fifty years later, was that first reunion upon our return home. The scene plays out before my eyes, the eyes of a 4 year old. I walked through the door. Saw my grandmother. Had a realization that I had been gone for more than a week, a week without her hugs, a week without her loving voice. And in that instant, ran to her, my arms outstretched, exclaiming “Grandmom! Grandmom! Grandmom!” There are so many moments I can recall, more than I can possibly enumerate here. But I can tell you now, they were moments of love in its most pure form. Witnessing the presence of pure love, pure being, through the felt sense of love, through the eyes of a 4 year old.

While love may be hard to describe using words, I think faith is even more elusive to explanation. Which when we think of it, faith is something that at one time or another eludes many. Faith for some comes easily, but for some, it does not. This is true whether we speak of faith in terms of religion or in people, places and things. Think for a moment about your favorite sports team (or maybe not). We have times of crisis, big and small. We question. We have moments of doubt. But through all of my memories of my grandmother, her faith was unwavering, both in terms of her religious faith and her faith in others. As for her religious devotion, I witnessed it nightly. Each night, she would sit on the edge of the bed, facing the window that looked out onto our backyard, with her elbows gently resting against her sides, her forearms extended in front of her, hands held out, palms facing up, she would silently recite her evening prayer before retiring for the night. If I was sick, she would place a prayer, handwritten by her, underneath my pillow. I didn’t question it. In fact when I went off to college, she gave me a copy to take with me. I have no idea what it says, it’s written in Armenian. But I still have it. In terms of faith of those around her, it was just as strong. She had faith and trust in this new country that she became a citizen of when she arrived in the United States in 1926 at the age of 19. It was somewhat of an arranged marriage setup through her uncle. Her uncle who was living in the United States at the time said to my grandfather, who was by this point already a U.S. citizen, “I have a nice niece for you. She’s living in France.” It was arranged for them to meet in Paris. There were no obligations, either party could reject the match. They met. They liked each other. They got married in Paris. And then sailed to the United States to start a life together. Both had experienced grief and trauma at young ages. My grandmother was an orphan by the age of eight. To have your parents taken away from you at such a young age is unthinkable. And also as a result of this, my grandmother, being the eldest female child, had to stop going to school, also unthinkable. She loved school. She would have dreams at night that she was going to school the next morning, only to wake and know that this was not her reality. Even as a young wife and mother, her faith was not deterred by events going on around her, be it on a global or personal level. There were the hard times experienced during The Great Depression which the nation and world was also experiencing, but on a more personal level, the loss of her only son, my mom’s younger brother Albert. He died at 6 months of age due to pneumonia. My grandmother would say later in life, “He died, because we were poor. There was no money for a doctor.” By the time, they took him to the doctor, it was too late to do anything. The loss of a parent, both parents is traumatic, but the loss of a child ... Still, even through the course of these events, through grief and mourning, she continued to move through life, and, live it fully. She met the world with a smile. She’d strike up conversations with everyone. Quite often when we would go to a mall and she chose to rest on a bench for a bit, my mom and I would come back to find her engaged in conversation with someone. She would often say to people she would meet for the first time, “I’m 86 (insert age). I’m doing ok!” My grandmother was the warmest, most loving, most compassionate, happiest person I ever met. True happiness, not just a projection of happiness, she was truly happy in her own skin. She understood well to appreciate each moment. She had faith in her God and in humanity. And she had faith in herself. Upon reflection, I see this now. Witnessing the presence of an unwavering faith and the strength of the human spirit.

When one speaks of love and faith, the word devotion often comes to mind. And as with faith, one can think of devotion in terms of religion, but also to the less abstract. Someone can be a devout Eagles fan … no matter what happened in Sunday’s game. We see it in our healthcare workers and our teachers, devoted to their work. We may see it first in the form of familial devotion, the acts of love and devotion within a family, parent to child, child to parent, husband to wife and wife to husband. We can witness this in friends and our social-support groups, our self-created families, through the outpouring of acts of love and support we receive in times of need. Devotion is another word that is hard to describe with words. It is most often seen through actions. It is witnessed. It is heard. It is tasted. It is felt. Yoga has a term for this, bhakti. Bhakti is a sanskrit word that can be translated several ways, one of which is loving devotion. In fact, there is a whole path of yoga called bhakti yoga, practices of love and devotion to God. This path of yoga is not what most people picture when they think of yoga. It is not a physical practice. It is a practice of the heart. The practice of bhakti yoga is described in the Bhagavad Gita, which yes, while it is a Hindu scripture, I want to make it clear that yoga is not a religion. You do not need to practice Hinduism to practice yoga. People of all faiths can practice yoga. Perhaps if I frame it in a way by looking at other religions of the world. If we look closely, we can see common themes, common ethical rules, common practices. Practices of love and devotion are one of them. Singing and chanting is probably one that many of us are familiar with. I grew up and was baptized and confirmed in the Armenian Church, an Eastern Orthodox Christian religion. The choir sang hymns, much of the liturgy was chanted. Which brings me back to the word devotion. Often, when something is really heart-felt, we can have the experience of devotion through music, through song. Music moves. It’s not the words and notes themselves, it’s the feeling behind the words, behind the notes. We all know words by themselves can be empty. Someone can utter words of devotion, but said without feeling, they end up being just words with no meaning. It is the felt-sense behind the words that makes the word devotion come to life and gives it meaning. And when these words impart a feeling, that feeling is bhakti. Which is why when I think of examples of bhakti, my grandmother is the first person that I think of. She loved fully, was steadfast in her faith, and was devoted to God, church and family. The Bhagavad Gita say people choose the path of devotion, bhakti yoga, for one of four reasons. One reason people seek this path out is during times of great distress. And it’s true, people often turn to their religion for comfort during a crisis. Some seek this path because they seek knowledge, so a person’s natural intellectual curiosity may bring them here. Some may seek out this path for what comes after our time here on earth ends. And some, seek this path out of pure love. From what I’ve witnessed, I think my grandmother falls into the last category. Yes, she had suffered great losses as a child and she had traumatic experiences as a young woman. Yes, she had a love of learning and an education was valued. Yes, she enjoyed the pleasures of life, gardening, cooking, eating, singing, playing, loving. And she was ready to meet her maker when her time on earth was done. But coming back to the point of why people choose the path of loving devotion, when I think of my grandmom, I think of love, a pure love, simple in its beauty, and a beautiful thing to behold.

Speaking of holds, my grandmother’s hugs were felt. Her arms and hands were strong, maybe from all of that gardening and baking and kneading dough. In the arms of my grandmom, I felt through the strength of her hugs, the power of her love, her faith, and her devotion.

Love. Faith. Devotion. May these gifts be yours …

Peace be with you.

Christine Lisa

So two little anecdotes.

First, if we went to the mall, my grandmom couldn’t pass the jewelry counters without looking. She wore jewelry everyday of her life, not just when she left the house. She’d even wear her earrings, necklaces, bracelets and rings when she was cooking or washing dishes (no dishwasher). Note the earrings and bracelets in the picture above. I have those bracelets. She wore them EVERY day. And, I have the note from my mom that says she wore them every day … and mom is always right :)

Second, my grandmother LOVED feeding people. Within seconds of entering our house, fruit, nuts, sweets would be offered. And if you were having dinner, seconds and thirds would be thrust upon you. No one could refuse my grandmom. One of my earliest recollections of my grandparents tailor shop was being lead to the kitchen by my grandmom where she would cook me a scrambled egg. I was too skinny, her nickname for me at that time was “skinny crow” and in Armenian, she would say “voskor, voskor” meaning “bones, bones” as she would mimic being able to snap a rib. Picture Aunt Voula from My Big Fat Greek Wedding pinching Toula’s collarbone saying “I could snap you like a chicken!” … and by the way, the woman who plays Aunt Voula, Andrea Martin, is Armenian. I recently found out my DNA heritage includes Greek Cypress so between, the Armenians, the Italians, the Greeks … I come from a long line of “eaters” … and here is a song from my childhood that gives you a glimpse of growing up in my household, Ger-Ger Yavroom. The word “ger” translates to “eat” and the word “yavroom” translates to child, or baby … so the song is telling you to “eat, eat, young one, eat to grow big, if you don’t eat, you’ll stay small” … you get the idea!

https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=CtJOiaBJGBI&feature=share

Ger-Ger Yavroom from the album Armenian Dance Party by the Eddie Mekjian Ensemble