The small house sat around the corner from ours; unremarkable, inconspicuous among the dozens of similar unremarkable, inconspicuous houses in the village. For me, though, it was not just another house. Somewhere in the mysterious mapping of past to present; in the cosmic laws of progeny and succession, the invisible cords of connection drew me to that house.
My maternal great-grandmother had lived there. She died before I was born, and I know few details about her life. I know that her husband had gone to another island, and that she was left to raise my grandmother and two other children practically on her own.
I know they were poor—one of my great uncles once told me that his resolve to seek a better life was formed at what he saw as the lowest point in their difficult circumstances. One Saturday, he said, his sister, my grandmother, was forced to travel by foot, over four hours each way, to a village in the extreme north of the island—in the shadow of the volcano—to seek food for the family.
My great uncle eventually made his way to the oil rigs of Aruba and Curaçao, and later to America. He never forgot his commitment to help his family.
But amid the dearth of information about my great grandmother, an amazing detail emerges—her dedication to prayer. My mom’s cousin and lifelong close friend often recalled the priority assigned to prayer in their grandmother’s life.
Rising before dawn each morning, she would spend hours on her knees, seeking God before trying to tackle the day. The house was close to the road, and farmers, getting an early start to the mountains grew used to the sound of my great-grandmother at “the throne of grace.”
I don’t know if this was one of the things she prayed for, but her husband eventually returned, in his final months of prostate cancer. He arrived unannounced, and though she was completely blind by this time, she recognized his step and called out his name as soon as he crossed the threshold.
The tiny house boasted no other “visitor” that I know of—no plaque could ever proudly testify that someone famous slept under its humble, galvanized roof. It's long gone, replaced by a more modern, concrete house built by my other great-uncle, my grandmother's second brother. But as I picture the old house in my mind, I wonder if, we—the children, the grandchildren, the great-grandchildren, the generations—are the plaque, the testimony that "Great-Grandmother Prayed Here."
Revelation 5:7-14 describes a scene in heaven where worship is being offered to Christ. An interesting detail emerges about the heavenly worshipers, "they were holding golden bowls full of incense, which are the prayers of God's people" (Revelation 5:8).
I am intrigued by those bowls full of incense. I won’t be surprised if they include the prayers of a humble woman who turned a house of hardship and abandonment into holy ground.
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