Lent: A Rugged Cross

Thoughts of Lent always lead me to thoughts of my heritage, which lead me to thoughts of my grandma.  

If my grandma was standing at the sink washing dishes, there was a good chance she was whistling her favorite hymn, The Old Rugged Cross.  She had one of those rich whistles that billowed with vibrato and carried through the house so that before you knew it, you were whistling or humming along.  

I wonder if she knew about George Bennard, the composer of the hymn.  He was a traveling evangelist with the Salvation Army in the early 1900s.  After a difficult season of ministry, he realized he needed to develop a better understanding of the cross, so he delved into study of the scriptures.  The cross became more than a symbol to him; it became the heartbeat of his ministry.  John 3:16 virtually leapt off the page in his mind's eye.  For months, he crafted a song that would express his deeper understanding, and when it was complete, he shared it with friends who were so moved they paid the fees to have it printed.  It is, of course, now a hymnal standard. 

On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross

The emblem of suffering and shame

And I love that old cross where the dearest and best

for a world of lost sinners was slain

So I'll cherish the old rugged cross

'til my trophies at last I lay down

and I'll cling to the old rugged cross

and exchange it someday for a crown

I sang this song at Grandma's funeral and thought back over her life.  She was devoted to her study of the scriptures.  I know this, because I have her Bible now, filled with the red-penciled highlights she so carefully drew, always using a ruler.  

Many afternoons she would sit with her Bible by her radio, which was housed in a giant console, and listen to the teachings of J. Vernon McGee.  I also inherited her 5 volume set of his witty, conversational inductive study.

When I was little, I thought she was very religious and a little scary because she didn't coddle and spoil me like my other grandparents.  But as I got older, I realized that she was complicated.  She loved her Lord but did not know how to effectively show affection to her daughters when she was raising them.  She was legalistic without being loving.  She let a bitter root grow in her heart about her marriage and confessed to me one day, when I was an adult sitting on the bed in her guest room, that she had regrets about her life and marriage.  She felt she was mistreated and unloved by her in-laws and regretted ever moving to Iowa from her beloved life in North Carolina.  

I suppose this is why she was drawn to the old, rugged cross, with its rough-hewn surface and splinters and associated suffering.  She did not much enjoy her journey on earth. 

Tucked in her Bible is a page printed with this wisdom:

I think of her reading over this with the sense that it was too late for her, but maybe, someday, her granddaughter would read it and take it to heart as she was raising her own children.  I have.

I know without a doubt that she prayed for me my whole life...me, who grew up without any faith.  I am certain she prayed me right into that defining moment in college where I took the leap to embrace Christ and the Christian life.  I imagine those prayers to be a jewel in her heavenly crown, which she traded one day many years ago for a cross.