Like a Child At Home

My Godmother always called me her precious girl, no matter how old I got. She always made me feel, deep in my bones, that she was privileged to be my Godmother. We never used the front door entrance to go into her house. We always came in through the kitchen. In an Italian family that means something. If you’re family, you come in through the kitchen. Food meant love. The biscotti and amaretti cookies never came from the grocery store. They took time and patience to make. When I pushed the creaky storm door open, that aroma of almond and confectioner’s sugar met me first. I always knew the cookies would be waiting on that same fall-floral patterned china platter, decorated with a hand-embroidered white doily. In that moment, all of my moodiness and awkward tweenage insecurity evaporated. I felt loved and precious even before her words reached me. She didn’t just reach in for a hug. She cradled my face with both of her hands, paused to take me in, smiled and said those words I knew she would say, “My precious girl.” She made me feel like I had done something amazing for her just by showing up. There, in that dark, wood-paneled kitchen, with that same crisply-ironed rust-colored tablecloth, I felt privileged. I felt spoiled. I felt at home with myself. I came in through the kitchen and love made its way in through all of my senses and settled into my marrow.
                                                                     

       On the day my Aunt Eleanor—my Godmother—died I held her hand and sung my favorite setting of the 23^rd Psalm. She had become unconscious. Her breaths had become short and more rapid. I trusted that hearing was the last sense to go, so I sung:

“My Shepherd will supply my need;

Jehovah is his name:

In pastures fresh he makes me feed,

beside the living stream.

He brings my wandering spirit back,

when I forsake His ways;

and leads me, for His mercy’s sake,

in paths of truth and grace.
(Hymn here: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=YUvxPGxZt-s)

As more space lingered between her breaths, I felt so privileged to be there with her. This woman God gifted to me, whose two hands and three welcoming words taught me how to feel about myself, was finding her way home. With each line of this old hymn I prayed that she felt loving hands cradling her face, pausing to take her in, smiling with pride saying, “my precious girl.” The last verse of the hymn stole my breath because I knew, even as her body slipped away from me, that I would have her forever. She had been my Godmother, my legal guardian in case something happened to my parents. She held me at my Christening. She made me Italian Cream cakes on my birthdays. She sent me dolls from the countries she had visited. She sent me cards at Christmas and Easter. But on this day I held her. I sung,

“The sure provisions of my God

attend me all my days.

O may your house be my abode,

and all my work be praise.

There would I find a settled rest,

While others go and come;

No more a stranger, or a guest,

but like a child at home.”

It took my breath away when I realized that she had been so much more than my guardian should anything happen to my parents. She was so much more than a sweet aunt I saw once a year.. Year after year, cake after cake, one plate of cookies after another, she had gathered my spirit into her two hands and spoken me into the heart of God. She taught me, not just how to see myself, but how God sees me. She taught me what the privilege of love looks and acts like. I think about her every day, but especially in November. As the rusty leaves let go of the branches, I picture her tablecloth. I remember the feeling when her soft hand let go of mine for the last time. Every time I smell an amaretti cookie I think of her table—the table where I learned that I was precious, just because I showed up. Just for being me.

            In these difficult days since the election, days fraught with argument about who belongs, who is loved, who is welcome at the table, I think of my Godmother and that last verse of the hymn, “There would I find a settled rest, while others go and come. No more a stranger, or a guest, but like a child at home.” We are all children in search of a home. Not a big box with four walls, but the home built in our souls when two hands cradle our face, take us in, and make us know that we are precious. That we are God’s. We know that we are home when we know that a place has been set for us long before we showed up. In these difficult days that is the kind of love we can bear into our small corner of the world. With each encounter we can make people know, deep in their bones, that they are no more a stranger, or a guest, but like a child at home.