MY GRANDMOTHER "MIRACLE" FOR ME

My Grandmother Driskell was one of the saddest and maddest people I ever knew.  BUT I didn't know why, then.  During ALL these years since she died, Christmas, 1963, when I was 18, I hadn't heard much of anything.  Then, when I was visiting family in Tacoma last October, I saw some albums piled with photos and I heard bits of info that had never surfaced, but had started to rise up with paperwork found after my mom's death nearly 2 years ago.

My mom was born in 1920 in Tacoma and she was adopted.  I had been given the idea over time that my mom was wanted by the man to adopt her, but not by the woman. Found out recently that he was 50 and she was 39 when my mom, their new baby, was taken into their home.  I knew my mom had a sister.  What I didn't know til now was that their daughter, Ruth, had died in 1918 at the age of 5.  From what I understand, grandmother must have been still in sorrow and grief when this new baby was forced into her life.

Mom's dad, Edwin, had a real heart for her, from what we can understand.  He had a good city judge/atty job and a variety of ways to pull money in.  The house he had purchased was nice, to say the least.  I don't know where my grandmother's heart was, but, even though at that stretch of time she wasn't a "sweetness and light" person, MORE hit her.

First, her daughter [my mom] had polio in 1927-28.  Not as serious as some patients in those days, but she missed school for quite some time, especially in 3rd grade.  Next, Edwin, her husband, died in 1928. THEN, even though she had a fair amount of money, the Great Depression hit in 1929.  It wasn't long before she rented the house to others and moved back to Wisconsin where she could be with her family out there during that very tough financial time.  Mom was pushing 10 when entering Wisconsin;  she graduated in 1938.

 Mom was 6'2" in high school.  THAT got her attention!

Grandmother moved back to Tacoma to that same house after mom's graduation.  Mom, too, a few months later. And after I was born, I spent time there, off and on, for quite a number of years.

OK.  Now the main reason I'm writing this is because grandmother was very intense and didn't show a lot of care for us kids.  AND when it came to money, she wouldn't give any to anyone.  Thanksgiving would have hotdogs, not turkey, for instance.  She didn't put her money in the bank -- a number of people who went through the Great Depression didn't -- and she kept all of it -- a couple thousand -- in her purse.  [In those days, a thousand dollars was worth a whole lot more than it is now.]
 

THEN, in winter, 1956, when in 6th grade, I became very ill with either Asian flu or something connected to rheumatic fever. [Been told both possible, and have had symptoms from both ever since.  So, don't know for sure.] I'd been sick for days, my fever was quite high and I was having hallucinations.  Around midnight, the family doctor came to our house ... remember those days, folks?? ... and was not certain whether I would live or die.  I know he told my dad to give me a teaspoon of water every 20 minutes.  And Dad did ... all night.

The next day, a Sunday, my grandmother was brought to the house.  She stood by my bed, knowing I was probably going to die.  And my never-spending-money-for-anyone-grandmother, said, "IF you live, I will buy you a coat."

I don't know, but somehow that rushed into me and I DID come to health in a fairly short stretch of time, just a few days.  Afterwards, I DID go to a department store with my parents and grandmother and I DID get to choose a coat.  In our family, we had little money, rarely new clothes.   THIS. was. a. treat!!

As an 11-year-old, I chose a coat I will never forget.

It was a tweed-style coat with a variety of shades of blue. And the buttons were large and the THIS "letter" color.  YES, now I live in purple.  THEN I lived in blue.  And, as I said, this is one coat, one gift, I will never forget.

And, with what my grandmother went through in life, she was filled with fear, sorrow, anger, frustration.  I know she had gone to a Baptist church in Tacoma many, many years ago.  I have no idea where she truly was with the Lord, but, I hope, desperately hope, her heart was in Him.  I'd like to see her again...  I want to thank her for that coat.

SHE spoke the "giving" words and, even filled with fever, I truly heard them; then the LORD planted them deeply in my heart.

And, because of her offer, I lived.  

HALLELUJAH!!!!

MIRACLE # 6 -- WHEN I REPENT... HE RESTORES.

 This photo was taken 8 months after miracle occurred.

This involved Steve again, but the income and outgo was truly aimed at me.  He was used by the Lord to open my heart towards Him and trust Him even more.  I definitely was not a "Father" lover, yet ...  a basic Father follower, obeying when instructed. I tried to stay out of trouble as much as possible.  That was my goal.

God had, of course, stepped into my life very strongly a number of times  since my day of salvation, but, pushing nine more years, I was still never sure whether I was truly cared for and loved; instead, I felt I was put up with.  Since I was raised  with a "watching for exits" mentality, this New Life  hadn't broken into my heart on a regular basis.
 

February 12, 1975, I had a day off work.  My job had begun at an office in early January and, after my first paycheck, I had left my friend Susie's home and moved into an apartment. It was all coming together beautifully.  BUT I needed time to go to the utilities company and run some apartment-related errands and that was the first day I could, since the locations were open only during the business days and our “normal” work hours.

The night before, my son, Steve, who had just turned 2 on January 17th,  began whining and pulling his ear.  I refused to take it seriously, because I had chores to do and places to go and I couldn't risk losing that time.  I, basically, ignored him.

In the morning, I took him to Karen, the babysitter, told her his ear seemed to bother him and I'd be back when I was done running around.

I arrived at Karen's about 4:00.  She said he seemed to have a pretty high fever, but she didn't have a thermometer.  I touched him and he did feel hot, so I called a doctor's office.  I told the receptionist my son had a fever and he needed to be checked.   The receptionist, sounding annoyed, said, basically, it was OK to bring him in, but to get there as soon as possible, because they closed at 5:00.

I hurried.  When I walked in, a nurse had me take him to a room, and she took his temperature.  IMMEDIATELY, she started tearing his clothes off, hollered at another nurse, and they piled ice into a children's bathing tub, and forced him in, spreading the ice all over his body, him screaming, of course.  I was wide-eyed and didn't know exactly what was going on.  Finally, one of them said that his temperature was 105 degrees. They were anxious and working hard; I was horrified and felt that the "awful mom" had surfaced.  After about half an hour they were able to dress him ... he had been one unhappy boy! ... and the doctor gave me very clear instructions and, at the end, said that if I did everything carefully and correctly he would probably have the temperature drop much closer to the normal range in 24 hours.

When I got home, about 5:30, I put him in his pjs and laid him on the couch.  I hugged him and knelt down and cried and told the Lord I was so sorry I hadn't paid attention to Steve and hadn't tried to take care of him the way I should have, that I had put my errands first and ignored him.

Then I went to the kitchen, just a few feet away, and started cooking dinner.  I'd glance at him every few seconds, and he was sleeping.

An hour after coming home, having  been given a thermometer when leaving the doctor’s office,  I took his temperature.   I looked at it.  I took it again.

It was normal.  98.6.  NORMAL!

My life changed.  YES, Steve had been healed of allergies and iron deficiency the previous August, only a few months earlier, but neither of the consequences while going through that phase had been “my fault”.  It was simply life.  This one, to a significant “degree”, WAS my fault.  And, yet, God ... my FATHER ... stepped in to bless my heart, to let me know that I WAS His daughter, that He cared for ME.

I honestly don't know if Steve even recalls or knows this story.  But I have never forgotten a detail.  Why?  Because my heart began to be healed from fear of a Father -– any father -- and then taught how to rely on and love Him.  It didn't happen overnight, during that one short time, but the seed was planted deeply and solidly into my heart ... and, as stated before, MY LIFE CHANGED.

Since then I have grown to love -- and trust, and appreciate, and respect -- my Heavenly Father so much I can hardly wait to see Him!