My grandmother, Nora Virginia Sloas, met my grandfather, James Alvin Roe, when they were both students at what was then Eastern State Teacher’s College in Richmond, Kentucky. They married in June of 1931, and my mother Jean, their only child, arrived in 1932. That health issues prevented Grandmother from having any more children was a source of lifelong regret.
As a child I saw my mother’s parents for only one week out of every year, when we made a summer trek to their tiny town near the Virginia/North Carolina border. Though our long car trip invariably turned into a five-hour bicker-fest between my brother and me, all our strivings ceased upon entering Grandmother Roe’s simple but lovely home, where peace prevailed.
It was always orderly and clean. Nothing was ever out of place or lost. No one ever seemed in a hurry. There were no angry words or arguments to be overheard. My grandparents treated one another with love and mutual respect. Their deep Christian faith permeated their lives and spread its fragrance wherever they went. When staying with Grandmother and Granddaddy, we recited Bible verses together, and had some sort of devotional or prayer at most meals—which were served on lovely dishes and which included succulent offerings from their well-tended vegetable garden. My grandparents shared the gospel with my siblings and me regularly.
Grandmother Roe told me jokes and stories at bedtime, and often she would let me fall asleep listening to her precious LP recording of “The Sound of Music”. She forgave me when I wrote with red pencil on her white chenille bedspread and when I threw a dart at my brother (despite the fact that I had been earnestly warned against committing both of these foul deeds!) True, she served us some strangely unfamiliar vegetables (to this day I detest okra) but there was something comforting and stable about being in her home.
Upon becoming a Christian at age 15, I began to realize the wonderful heritage I had received from my grandparents. I knew that my conversion had likely been a fruit of their years of faithful prayer on my behalf. One of my most cherished recollections of my grandmother occurred several years after my grandfather died. I was then 24, a college graduate working at a job I desperately disliked, pursuing a career I emphatically did not want. I deeply desired marriage and motherhood, but nothing seemed to be happening. So I wrote my dear grandmother a letter and asked if she would join me in praying that my husband would arrive on the scene--soon! I wish I had saved her return letter (a sad casualty, no doubt, of an over-zealous cleaning spree) but I remember it vividly. In it she told me that she had been praying for my husband since I was born. She agreed to pray on a daily basis. However, she also gave me some wonderful advice that left an immeasurable impact. “Your grandfather” she wrote, “was the greatest man I ever knew. He loved and served the Lord with all his heart. Don’t settle for anything less than God’s best when considering marriage.” The rest of the letter was a testimony to the faith of my grandfather and the joy of living life with a godly husband. Her words were both exhilarating and sobering. I determined to try to become the kind of woman that such a man would want to pursue.
Fast-forward twenty-two years. Next month, my husband and I will celebrate our twenty-first anniversary. Yes, we were married a little less than a year after I sent that letter to Grandmother Roe—a reminder that the effective prayers of a righteous grandmother avail much! Geoff and I had been friends and had served together in various ministries in our church for several years, and of all the single men I knew, he was the one I respected most. I couldn’t believe it when he asked to court me--but that’s another story. I had the joy of introducing him to Grandmother Roe during our engagement, and after our wedding she told me, “Every time I’m around him and see His devotion to God I like him more.” The Lord had done “exceeding abundantly beyond all that we asked or imagined.”
In the years that followed my wedding, Grandmother’s physical health deteriorated to the point where she needed daily medical care and could no longer maintain her spotless home and extensive gardens. She would not allow my parents to care for her in their home, as my mother’s own health was poor. Our week-long stays at Grandmother’s house were replaced by short visits to the cold, twelve-by-twelve institutional cubicle of a room where she lived out her last years, surrounded by sick, frail, witless, and often hopeless elderly men and women. Her sharp mind, her unshakable faith, her ready humor, and her grateful heart never faltered. She lived to meet only one of my five children (and two of my sister’s seven). During her final days at the rest home, she redeemed the time that God apportioned to her by reading the Word, writing encouraging letters, and praying for the salvation of her great-grandchildren.
Carol Sawyer
