Smells Like Jesus

I have a basketful of precious childhood memories and a number of those moments were structured around time spent with my loving grandmother. I confess that my brothers and I like to give our grandma a hard time as she is one of the easiest people to poke fun at, excluding my scatterbrained self, of course. But it’s all in great affection for the grandma that shaped our impressionable spirits at a very young age. I find myself sentimental even as I type this article. Grams, thank you for showing me Jesus. You were the one to sew the first seeds into my heart so that a loving relationship with God could be nurtured.
Grandma was always the type to root for the underdog. Seemed her friend list consisted of the least of them. She was always dropping off groceries and sacks of clothes anonymously to unfamiliar front porches as I would wait in the car and watch her from a distance. As a young child, I remember her volunteering her time at the local Damascus house, which is like a Salvation Army. Most of my clothes came from Damascus House as money was sparse back then. Grandma was always picking out nice items for me as they would come in. I can remember pillaging through large black garbage bags, strewing out “new” old clothes when she would stop by the house.
I can still vividly recall the dilapidated building she would take me to as a 5 year old girl. It was a putrid shade of green, located right along the tracks on the east side of town; otherwise known as the bad part of town. It smelled to me like old people and vintage clothing such as polyester and wool and there was a narrow staircase, dimly lit, that lead us to the upstairs. I remember that it felt as though the floor might give out below me as we made our way up to the second story. I could smell coffee and I felt warmth coming toward me as we made our way through the make-shift kitchen area to a room filled with folding chairs. Grandma called this the upper room and so, I did too. She told me about the story in Acts where the believers were gathered together and how God sent his Holy Spirit as they tarried there. Grandma told me everything I would need to know about God at that age. I felt honored to be with her in the upper room, as she led me to my seat, my hand in hers.
It was a humble church service that we would attend in that unstable upstairs. Grandma often would swing by and pick up Sister Netty on our way. Sister Netty was an elderly black woman who always wore those neat little hats from the 1950’s. In fact, I can remember thinking that they called her Sister Netty because of the netting on her hat. I remember that Netty also had a distinct smell to her as well. She smelled like oil to me. Not engine oil or anything like that but, I believe it was the oil she put in her hair that was memorable to me. And so her soft leathery hands also smelled like oil. I can remember observing her hands as they were so unusual. On the outside they were dark and aged and on the inside, they were a faded shade of brown, proudly showing every crease and line in her palms. I was intrigued by Sister Netty and memorized her visually. She was so very kind to me and a dear friend to grandma.
As we would prepare for the service to start, which usually only consisted of a handful of unique characters, grandma would take me to the kitchen so I could make myself a cup of coffee. This was the highlight of my evening. I felt so very grown up as I poured at least as much cream and sugar into my cup, as there was coffee. Then I’d carefully take my seat next to grandma and Sister Netty. The preacher man was a round fellow and as a child I remember thinking he looked at though he was melting. He would often perspire in that warm upstairs room, dressed from head to toe in his Sunday best. I thought it was odd that he wore his belt around the widest part of his belly, making him look like a bit of a weeble wobble to me. Funny, isn’t it, the way we perceive things as children? He had a very bad comb-over on the top of his head but it was evident that he did not place much emphasis on earthly things. In fact, the folks that flocked to this service were only there for one thing, and that was to meet with Jesus. Before too long, we would be asked to pull out our hymnals and stand and sing together. I remember struggling to read these King James Version-type songs, chock-full of words that made no sense to me. But I sang to the best of my ability. I can still hear grandma singing. She would close her eyes and raise her hand. I once asked her why she did this. She told me that she was telling Jesus how much she loved Him. I closed my eyes too, and raised my hand as an act of love. I knew God was in that place. He felt warm, he smelled old, he looked funny…but He was there. I just knew it.
Thank you, grandma, for showing me what Jesus looks like, acts like, and even smells like. You have given me something so very valuable and special, and it won’t be taken from me.