Faith in fire
Leigh Roberts
English
Faith in Fire Like Langston Hughes I struggled to keep my faith alive. I found it difficult to believe in a higher power that I could not see. It was especially difficult when my grandmother prayed for a happy and safe family. I wondered if God, Jesus or even the Virgin Mary were listening. Grandma was a saint to most people. She never lost her faith regardless of the fact that her oldest daughter had her first child at 16 years old. She had a child every year after that until she had 9 children. None of these children were raised by their mother. She opted to be like a stray cat. The family only knew of her existence when we received a phone call from the hospital to come and pick up yet another baby. A crack baby most of the time was left for my Grandmother to pick up. She awed me when she would dress in her Sunday’s best and apply her make up with ease. Picking up another grandchild meant her daughter was alive. For this she would thank God and the saints for answering her prayers. And so she dressed the part.
As I became older I became mad with God. He didn’t seem to give Grandma “the saint” a brake. She lost her home in Costa rica to raise her ungrateful daughter’s ungrateful children. What send me marching into a church with tears burning in my eyes and rage in my heart, is when I witnessed my grandmother’s home burn down. She lived on Nelson Avenue in Jackson. She had a 2 story home fully carpeted with an attic, basement and backyard. One selfish cousin of mine was upset she was busted smoking with her friends outside. She was simply told to enter the house. She stopped up the stairs and slammed the bedroom door. “I can never do anything!” she shouted.
Grandma didn’t mind. At least her grand baby was safe inside with everyone else. But not 30 minutes later my cousin was running down the stairs screaming “fire!” Apparently she took up smoking in the room. We scrambled like chickens with our heads cut off.
“Everyone
English
Faith in Fire Like Langston Hughes I struggled to keep my faith alive. I found it difficult to believe in a higher power that I could not see. It was especially difficult when my grandmother prayed for a happy and safe family. I wondered if God, Jesus or even the Virgin Mary were listening. Grandma was a saint to most people. She never lost her faith regardless of the fact that her oldest daughter had her first child at 16 years old. She had a child every year after that until she had 9 children. None of these children were raised by their mother. She opted to be like a stray cat. The family only knew of her existence when we received a phone call from the hospital to come and pick up yet another baby. A crack baby most of the time was left for my Grandmother to pick up. She awed me when she would dress in her Sunday’s best and apply her make up with ease. Picking up another grandchild meant her daughter was alive. For this she would thank God and the saints for answering her prayers. And so she dressed the part.
As I became older I became mad with God. He didn’t seem to give Grandma “the saint” a brake. She lost her home in Costa rica to raise her ungrateful daughter’s ungrateful children. What send me marching into a church with tears burning in my eyes and rage in my heart, is when I witnessed my grandmother’s home burn down. She lived on Nelson Avenue in Jackson. She had a 2 story home fully carpeted with an attic, basement and backyard. One selfish cousin of mine was upset she was busted smoking with her friends outside. She was simply told to enter the house. She stopped up the stairs and slammed the bedroom door. “I can never do anything!” she shouted.
Grandma didn’t mind. At least her grand baby was safe inside with everyone else. But not 30 minutes later my cousin was running down the stairs screaming “fire!” Apparently she took up smoking in the room. We scrambled like chickens with our heads cut off.
“Everyone