October 23rd
If you haven’t organized and reorganized every box, bin, cabinet and drawer in 2020, it’s safe to say you might never get to it. I’m not the best organizer, but I love organized things and I have a particular love for retrieving old family memorabilia and slowly sifting my way through the volume and breadth of memories in a distinct way. Running my hands over paper and returning it to it’s resting place, honoring the significance, is one of my delights.
I recently found a letter belonging to my father-in-law for a paper route, from the Industrial Commission of Wisconsin offering him employment for “2 hours per day at an entrance wage of 85 cents per hour, plus an additional premium if a bicycle is used, on receipt of the Child Labor permit as required by law. Yours very truly, R.H. Underwood, Superintendent.” Right next to this letter, a letter from Santa, assuring my father-in law his letter had been received and he’s been a “pretty good boy.”
I also found my baby dedication certificate, dated October 23, 1966, signed by my grandfather. The certificate stamp is from the First Spanish Assembly of God on 14th Ave. @ Julian St. in Denver and a little vintage baby card is taped to the certificate. Shout out to my mom’s creative memories days. He signed the document as the dedicating pastor and authority, but his signature is significantly more meaningful than serving as the officiant of the ceremony.
He served as the second line of defense in the spiritual nurturing of his tiny infant granddaughter, me. Since my momma was a working woman, heaven’s generosity allowed me to grow in the daily care and nurture of my grandparent’s love. Their everyday moments of life, simple meals and prayer-clasped hands, of discussing matters of faith and reading books, filled my childhood days. They were most at ease with their life and the peaceful atmosphere was infectious, to say the least. They raised me with tender gospel clarity and purpose. They established my true north.
They daily they gave me Spirit-filled glimpses of His beauty. His majesty. His peace.
Because they passed when I was 7, I never got the chance to memorialize their story. What of their life in Chama, New Mexico and their love for the river? What of the stuff of their lives when they were young? Of raising kids. Of doing the work of a long-haul marriage with five kids and the demands of ministry life. I knew that he loved her and didn’t last long on this earth without her, but I long for the details.
I’ve come to realize that I am their story. Along with so many others.
The holy grail of family objects is a recording of my grandfather singing Blessed Assurance. He often led the congregation in song at the end of his sermons. Somehow there was a record pressing machine at a revival meeting, a small device that carved a recording on an acetate disc, and his sermon and song, for one precious moment in time, was captured.
I sift through stacks of yellowed papers and a few pictures of him in his thick frames. I find the pictures of him incredibly moving, my fleshy face and oversized features staring back at me. One of my favorite images is a trio of him and his brother with their mom, Ufemia. She was old. Dirt old. She looked like an old raisin with a wide toothless grin and weathered skin and it looks like she is laughing in the picture. Literally, she looks exactly like Mama Coco in Disney’s Coco. My dad always tells me I look just like her, “you’re beautiful like Ufemia,” he says, but there are no pictures of a younger and (hopefully) more beautiful her.
At least I have a good idea of what I’ll look like at age 100.
I’m mostly done with all my bins and boxes. My daughter Amanda wants the letter from Santa. I want to frame the paper route letter and a few other treasures on a family history wall. An ofrenda, if you will. This little baby dedication certificate might even get a frame of its own. On this day, 54 years ago, the Reverend Rubel Benavidez dedicated his granddaughter to the Lord.
This is his story, this is his song.