For me, a lifetime of spiritual strength and personal confidence evolved from my childhood observation of the relationship my grandmother had with God. Initially, I didn’t even notice what was happening. But over the years, what I saw in my formative years has become special to me.
In every black family, there is a Big Mama. For me, it was Mother Barbara, and when she prayed, it was always life-changing. Mention of Big Mama praying spurs fond recollections of holidays with grandmother for thousands of African Americans. Also, it evokes more than a little snickering. They remember holiday dinners when three or more generations gathered. Assembled family members seemed to starve all day while waiting impatiently for an obscenely enormous meal.
As the day progressed, conversations waned, but only a little. Stomachs growled. A few inquired about how long before dinner. Relay teams ferried food to the table. There were so many choices, all piping hot. Then it was time to bless the food.
That’s when Big Mama took over. Heads bowed. Eyes closed. Take a deep breath because this could take a while.
It took me half a lifetime, but I now appreciate the gravity of Mother Barbara’s prayers. Those prayers had little to do with blessing food. Those prayers were part psychology, part history lesson, part sociological reality, and partly the emotional embrace of a mother on those really dark times that can seem into any life.
Sometimes we’d hear our names called as we overheard Big Mama’s conversation with the Almighty. Even if we were a bunch of knuckleheads, those prayers touched us. They made us more pensive, stronger and more determined. Maybe we still lurched into darkness, but not nearly so far as we otherwise might have. Years later, those overheard prayers buoyed us as we grappled with new problems and the new generations of iconoclasts.
From family to family, with few exceptions, there was a defined structure to Big Mama’s prayers. She would buck us up by reminding us of the hardships we’d endured and the challenges we’d conquered. Then she’d pivot into suggesting that those past challenges had steeled us for the days ahead. Those words, of course, were about faith – having faith and living gratefully.
In a few sentences, Big Mama recast the way we viewed ourselves – who we were and what we were capable of enduring or achieving. She also subtly communicated directly with family members who were especially burdened or frightened about the days ahead.
Everybody talked to Big Mama. She kept secrets. So the spendthrift daughter, the wayward son-in-law, or the grandchild staring at college-life disaster, all felt secure privately pouring out their hearts to Big Mama. Other family members sought Big Mama’s companionship, drawing solace from her calm demeanor without ever speaking of their struggles.
Big Mama rewarded them. In that seemingly over-long prayer, there would be phrases or a sentence designed to speak to and lift a single troubled heart, then another, and another, and another.
Months earlier an exasperated Aunt Gert confided to Big Mama that it was pointless to continue trying to help an ungrateful Baby Brother. In the grace before dinner, Big Mama had a single sentence for her daughter Gertrude:
“Lord help us follow your example and to continue to reach out to one another, even when it seems that nobody is reaching back.”
There was a whole sermon in that sentence. Only Gertrude understood it all. Finally, it was my turn. In words that seemed superfluous to others, a portion of that prayer would bless me with new strength and new courage for the days ahead.
Occasionally, she’d call names. When she did, she’d pray by name for a whole generation so as not to expose those who’d confided their secrets.
Nowadays we’ve largely replaced those prayers with a more pro forma grace. We call on a visiting pastor, or a well-educated grandchild. Flawlessly, and quickly they bless the food.
But we miss the full year of spiritual cover we got when Big Mama prayed.
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