Originally appeared in the Evangelist, April 6, 2018.
“May you live to see your children’s children.” This blessing from our wedding 45 years ago has been fulfilled: My fifth grandchild’s recent visit included taking the traditional “Grandma holding the new baby” photo. Five silver frames now hold the memories of each first embrace.
In every photo, I am sitting in the same blue rocking chair, cuddling the infant and smiling as I recall the gentle rocking motions of my own graced history.
My grandmother purchased a rocking chair as a birthday gift for my grandfather right before I was born. It was a sturdy gray upholstered chair with a beautiful mahogany frame. My grandfather died just a few months later, however, and the chair became a solace for my grandmother.
She rocked and stared out the window. She rocked and prayed in her little apartment downstairs. She rocked and cuddled a grandchild. My grandmother’s rocking chair fills my memories with slow swaying motions and gentle creaking sounds. I loved that rocker.
One Sunday, when I was nine, I went to a party. When I returned home, I found that my family had gone out to dinner without me. The sudden absence of everyone was very upsetting.
Grandma noticed my silent “worry tears” and simply invited me to sit in the special chair and hold her rosary. I felt safe, comfortable and embraced by the curving wooden arms. I threw her quilt around my shoulders, fingered the beads and rocked until the worries were gone.
My grandmother died when I was 12. I begged my stern Aunt Marion to give me the rocking chair. To my great surprise, she did. The chair was dragged upstairs to my tiny bedroom.
If I leaned back too far, the chair hit skirts and blouses hanging from an open rod. But even in that tight space, I was thrilled to be the keeper of Grandma’s chair.
One October evening, on my last day of being 13, I was watching the news with our neighbors. President Kennedy was speaking about a “crisis.” He used words like “missiles,” “bombs” and “Cuba,” and his speech confused me.
The neighbors were panicked and convinced we would not have a country in the morning. I was worried I’d never have my 14th birthday. I rushed home to the chair and remained there until the rhythm of the rocking calmed my fears and I fell asleep.
Through high school and college, Grandma’s chair kept me happy. It was where I did homework, read novels and napped. In my first apartment, the rocking chair finally had a window spot, and I became my curious grandmother: rocking away, watching the street activity. In my first house, the chair was my quiet private space, and I became my praying grandmother: eyes closed, feet up on a stool, soaking in God.
The chair moved to a nursery when my first child was born. I came home from the hospital and crashed into my favorite soft spot. I spent 11 years rocking children, and when I nursed my fourth child for the last time, I returned the chair to my bedroom.
There, it survived as a retreat from a noisy household. All I needed was a cup of tea and 10 minutes alone in Grandma’s rocking chair to be refreshed.
A few years ago, the rocking chair left my home for three long months, and I missed my quiet steady spot. It was given a professional makeover, since I was soon becoming a grandma.
The chair returned varnished, re-stuffed and covered with lovely blue fabric, but I was delighted to hear the old familiar creak.
The new version of Grandma’s old rocking chair still brings me great peace, calms my spirit and quiets my mind. It has been my prayer chair, my writing chair and my “cranky relief” chair, and has made the arc from grandmother to grandmother.
I feel blessed to keep the family motion going through prayers and gentle rocks – until one of my own grandchildren loves the chair enough to become the memory keeper.
(Ms. Berkery is pastoral associate for faith formation at Our Lady of the Assumption parish in Latham and has published faith reflections in several publications. She was a contributing author for “Let the Clock Run Wild: Wit and Wisdom from Boomers and Bobbysoxers.”