What I Learned from my Grandmother’s Letter

A Tribute to Faith Swihart Weigold

A visit with Grandma Weigold in her home. Great Grandma with Josh and LaVonne. 1984

I HELD THE LETTER in my hand after reading its contents, struck by its difference from all the others. My thoughts were journeying as I reflected on recent times of anguish and hardship. Grandma Weigold’s letter was one of the last in a short stack of envelopes addressed to my erring mate, letters he had gathered over the past few months received after he had disappeared and abandoned the children and me and then resurfaced in another state a couple of months later. In the letters were pleas and concerns. Some I had penned to him. Now he was back and we were trying to figure out a way to forgive, heal and put the past behind us. It was painful reading. My grandmother’s letter to him, despite his actions, was one of hope and affirmation. She saw the needy person rather than his hurtful actions. She let him know of her concern for him and that she and God loved him. The other people’s letters read more like a scold or remonstration by telling him he needed to get “right with God,” and “care about his family” which was also true, of course, but not something he would acknowledge or could internalize at the time. Given the circumstances, her loving words were remarkable. A few years later, he would publicly speak of Grandma and her goodness to him at her memorial service.

Grandma didn’t judge. She loved.

That is how my grandmother chose to live her life.
Some called her gullible and some said she was too trusting, but all said she was a loving person. My grandmother was a woman of faith. Now, it didn’t need to be that way. Life was difficult. She had every reason to feel cheated. Grandma’s mother died of a pregnancy-related hemorrhage when grandma was only twelve. Her sixteen year old sister left home to get married which left grandma to care for her three younger brothers, the youngest only two. Her preacher papa would never remarry. To make ends meet, her family operated a farm in Indiana, a lovely place with hand-hewn timbers in its barn and its own natural pond. (My parents took our family there one time) Grandma’s father was a preacher in the brethren community. But times were lean. Her father was kind and caring. In good faith, he loaned money to people who came to him destitute and unable to pay their bills. The bank lenders weren’t so understanding. In time, my Great-Grandfather Swihart lost the farm. It broke their hearts. Grandma said it was because the people didn’t pay her father back.

Grandma’s father located a pastorate in Arizona.
When it came time for the family to move, my grandma kissed the side of their farm house knowing she was leaving her childhood with its memories behind. The little church in Arizona was welcoming. However, musical instruments were frowned on as worldly entertainment. The first time she played piano in church, one of the deacons who was sitting in the front pew, in protest, stood up and walked out. That didn’t stop her. Accompanying on the piano for church worship was one of grandma’s happiest joys in life, something she did for the rest of her life.

Grandma waited to marry my granddad until her youngest brother was old enough to look after himself.
She was a woman of devotion to God. God was real to her. Through sacrificial effort she made sure my mother was given violin lessons and my aunt was given piano lessons (that’s a story in itself). My siblings and I grew up singing with my grandmother. In my earlier years, Grandma took my sisters and me to sing trios for convalescent homes and for invalids in their own homes, people whom my grandma knew but the world had forgotten. Grandmother was a composer, a songwriter of spiritual music. We mostly sang her songs during our performances. I learned to give to others partly because grandma helped me learn how to do so. She gave us a great gift by sharing music with her family. It is something my siblings and I have used in our churches as well.

A year or two before Grandma came to the end of her journey. We spent a week with her. Here we are ready for church.

My children and I spent a week with Grandma shortly before she came to the end of her journey. Here we are in front of her porch ready to go to church with her. 1994 (?)

Faith honors God and God honors Faith

Faith is something hard to describe.
Grandma lived it like it was the breath of life. Faith was in her through and through. And Faith was her name. Her prayers were meaningful. It was easy to believe they would be answered. She kept a miniature black notebook on the headboard of her bed. It contained her intercessory prayer list. A penciled in date marked when each prayer was answered. (I didn’t know this until I lived with her for a year when I was twenty-four.) Grandma’s hugs were bountiful and her smiles greeted us when we met her at the porch door even at midnight on Christmas Eve, after a five hundred thirty mile trip to Southern California. I can’t remember her ever being angry or upset. Even trials were met with a peaceful spirit.

I, quite possibly, appreciate my grandmother more now that I am a grandmother.
I realize that a grandparent has an important role with their impressionable grandchildren. And, my life has become more like hers. I have grown to love God much as she did. Her creative bent is in me, the love for beauty, living things, and how God works in unusual ways. Her song lyrics are much like my own written expressions, full of nature and God’s care. They read like a poem, an expression of love for the Creator. My grandmother’s life continues to bear fruit. Her influence by example lit the path to show the way for myself and many others who had the good fortune to know her.

“My Heart Believes” by Faith S. Weigold (dedicated to her daughter, Louise)

My heart believes in miracles, A mystery of God,
My heart believes in miracles when grass breaks through the sod;
The changing seasons come and go, The balmy breezes blow,
The breath of spring and birds on wing, O I believe and know;

The singing bird, the honey bee, The rivers flowing out to sea;
The bursting bud, the tow’ring tree, Are miracles we all can see!
A life can change from cruel pain, Like sunshine after rain,
My heart believes in miracles, Oh! I believe and know.

The letter I held in my hand that day was a confirmation of the true state of my grandmother’s heart.
She was different because she saw people through the the vision of God. Grandma taught me through her letter that the love of God looks on the heart and beholds someone worth saving and loving. It was a powerful lesson. God does see people in that way. I have learned, so should I.

One of my grandmother’s books: Songs of Heavenly Praises